


Tales from the South Side

by J_Q, Nicrenkel, RedStarFiction



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x9 - Freeform, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, GW2018, Gallavich Endgame, Horror, Humor, Love, M/M, Milkovich Badassery, No Breakups, Sass, Sibling Bonding, Smut, Violence, Weapons Galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicrenkel/pseuds/Nicrenkel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedStarFiction/pseuds/RedStarFiction
Summary: **They thought that growing up on the south side prepared them for a lot of shit, but nothing prepared them for THIS**“There is nobody out there!”He unlatched the chain lock and reached for the knob, sending Ian’s heart leaping into his throat. “No!”Mickey wrenched the door open. “Fuckin look—“His words died in his throat. The grotesque scene stopped the world from spinning, and left them frozen as the images took root.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon-based AU that starts at the beginning of season 5 episode 9. 
> 
> There will be no breakup here, but Ian's struggles with his disorder are prevalent.
> 
> ...As are an entire slew of new challenges.
> 
> This is a Horror and Violence AU with romance, smut, humor, and family bonding... and a whole bunch of Milkovich badassery.
> 
> Enjoy!

Ian awoke with a start to the sound of a slamming door. Heart pounding hard in his chest, a wave of dread washed over him as he struggled to catch his breath.

It only took a second to realize what was happening, his mind too alert to deny the facts-- they had found him.

Tossing aside his blanket, he leapt over the still form of his sleeping boyfriend and scrambled towards the window, splaying open the blinds in a frantic search. “MPs.”

He could hear them. Marching towards the house, clawing at the outer walls, shouting blurred orders he couldn’t decipher.

It was always a possibility that this day could come; being AWOL from the military meant always looking over your shoulder, always carrying the silent burden from your loved ones. From Mickey.

And just when Ian thought that things couldn’t possibly get worse for them, that the universe had unloaded all of its bullshit into their private lives that it possibly could have, it led the MPs to his door.

Mickey was starting to stir, but Ian knew he was already out of time. “They’re coming. Wake up.”

“What are you talking— come back to bed.“ Ian had flung open the door before Mickey could finish. “No, I can’t let them get in the house!” He bolted down the stairs, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He grabbed the bat from the hook on the wall and crouched low, approaching the front window in as stealth a manner as he could manage. He needed to get eyes on the approaching enemy, but he couldn’t afford to be spotted. He needed the upper hand.

He couldn’t see them, but he could hear them. Scratching. Calling out to each other. He was surrounded. He was outnumbered.

_Block the doors_. He turned to see Fiona standing idly at the other end of the room. “Move the couch in front of the door so they can’t get in.” He pulled at the couch, gripping his bat tightly. Fucking Frank laid there passed out like the dead weight he’d always been, completely oblivious to the danger they were in.

With trembling hands, he circled the couch and heaved it towards the front entryway. “Help me!” he called to his sister, desperation seeping in as he struggled to push the couch away from the rug without success. _Why the fuck wasn’t this moving?!?_

The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he heard footsteps climbing up the back porch. He wasn’t ready for this. His family wasn’t prepared for the invasion. He had to act fast.

He spun around, hunched over so as not to be seen through the kitchen window, and sprinted to beat the men to the door.

“Ian…” Fiona trailed behind him slowly. _Why was no one helping him?_

“They’re coming to get me!” He opened the door until the chain pulled tight. His military training had taught him to survey his surroundings, to collect data and act appropriately. His senses told him that they were close, hidden just out of his sight.

He could smell them. Their sweat, their hatred of him. It was putrid.

Horror washed over him as he realized he was helpless. His eyes widened with fright, “Don’t let them take me!”

Once they had him in their grips, that’d be the end of him. He’d never see the light of day again.

He slammed the door shut. “They’re gonna take me away!” He’d never see Mickey again.

_Mickey_.

“No one is coming for you!” Mickey’s voice cut through the panic induced fog and lingered in his mind, stilling his thoughts. He gripped the bat tight and held on for dear life. He wouldn’t let them hurt Mickey. He’d die first.

A door popped open to his left, and he swung at the enemy with all of his might.

The bat hit the bathroom door with a thundering BOOM.

Debbie flew backward in surprise, arms flailing out towards the surrounding walls to catch her balance. Ian heard a shriek behind him, and reality slowly dawned on him.

_Had Debs been one foot closer_ …

Trembling with guilt and confusion, Ian searched her eyes for answers. For forgiveness. He had never felt so lost.

“Hey, hey!” Mickey cupped his face, patting his cheek brusquely to pull Ian out of his trance. “There is nobody out there!”

He unlatched the chain lock and reached for the knob, sending Ian’s heart leaping into his throat. “No!”

Mickey wrenched the door open. “Fuckin look—“

 

 

His words died in his throat. The grotesque scene stopped the world from spinning, and left them frozen as the images took root.

Three men, each in states of decay and rot, lumbered in the doorway, slouched over and growling lowly.

Sagging skin hung from blood shot eyes; black tongues joggled inside gaping mouths full of bleeding gums. Their clothes reeked of vomit and piss, matted hair oily and wild… their limbs were covered in long scrapes and gashes, as if each one had suffered a serious case of road rash.

Mickey took a step back, hands raised in defense. “WHAT the FUCK?” His wide eyes matching Ian’s, adrenaline skyrocketing as they felt the dead weight in their limbs start to loosen.

“Oh my god, someone call 911!” Fiona’s panicked voice wafted over them. Neither man took his eyes off of the surreal nightmare unfolding in front of them.

Best case scenario, these men have been dead for days. Mickey had seen some shit in his lifetime, and knew first hand that there was zero chance an ambulance was going to do them a damn bit of good.

The one in the middle opened his mouth wide as if he were about to speak. The putrid stench Ian had smelled before magnified as he struggled to push out a load groan, followed by vomiting up what looked like congealed blood.

“Look, we don’t know who you are, or what you want—“

Its head snapped towards Fiona, golden pupils following the sound of her voice. She stumbled backwards, catching herself against the kitchen counter.

The slurred growls intensified in volume, and their bloated, decomposing faces screwed up with rage.

Ian slowly raised the bat without breaking eye contact, lifting his arms up into a swinging stance.

“Ian…” Mickey muttered under his breath, “Close… the fucking door…” His movements were minute, so as not to magnify the situation.

It happened all at once: The one in the middle, still drooling blood from its gaping jaw, lunged forward and wrapped his pulpy hands around Mickey’s neck, pulling him close with exceptional strength. His jagged teeth brushing at the smooth column of Mickey’s neck, gnashing, trying to bite at the skin frantically.

Mickey bracketed one arm under its chin and wrapped the other hand atop its head, wrenching the rotting skull backwards with all of his might. Its scalp started to tear away, the liquid substance making Mickey’s grip impossible to maintain.

Ian caught the other two sets of eyes light up in the doorway, snapping their jaws in Mickey’s direction. Time slowed down, and he saw the only move available. He had one chance to get it right.

He stomped his foot down into the corpse’s leg so hard it snapped, causing the creature to fall to the floor, pulling Mickey down with him. The moment their heads dropped below Ian’s chest level, he swung the bat with every molecule of body strength he possessed.

The barrel of the bat caught two skulls with a loud THWACK. They flew backwards, clutching their faces as hisses gurgled from their throats. Ian slammed the door shut.

Mickey fell to the ground hard, head bouncing off of the kitchen tile. He wrapped a leg around its back, flipping them over to straddle the crazed beast still clenching his neck with both hands. He gripped its neck in return, and landed a solid blow to its face. The bridge of its bulbous nose collapsed into its skull, and kept screaming whispered fury under the brunet’s hold.

Mickey pounded into it repeatedly, wailing with his closed fist until the squish met with linoleum. He gulped his breath and his chest heaved desperately for air. His eyes dragged up slowly to meet Ian’s, too stunned to speak.

The only sound in the kitchen was the sound of panting breaths and choked whimpers from Deb, still standing stock still under the doorway of the bathroom. The girls looked to each other and then to the stilled monstrosity strewn about the floor.

Ian kept his eyes trained on Mickey, looking him up and down, checking for signs of injury. Mickey’s arms and the chest portion of his sleeveless t-shirt were doused with dark red blood, but none of it seemed to be his.

“Mick?”

The door flew open, and two ravenous corpses lunged past them. One headed towards Fiona, the other hunched in Debbie’s direction.

Ian’s head whipped from one to another, his body tentatively stepping in either direction. Mickey dove off of his attacker, slipping around in blood and struggling to make it to the bathroom first. Crawling on sludge-covered hands, he wrapped a hand around the creature’s ankle. Debbie stepped back just in time for Mickey to push the bottom corner of the door closed with his fingertips.

Having successfully distracted the corpse from the girl, it toppled forward and landed on Mickey, draping itself around his whole body. Ian rushed forward, bat raised, waiting for his opportunity.

Mickey interlocked his fingers around the assailants neck at the same time that it choked his windpipe with its preternaturally strong clutch. Mickey squeezed as tightly as he could, his fingers sinking through into the mush. He pushed away as his attacker pulled him close.

Ian studied the scene with distraught helplessness. If he brought the bat down hard enough to make a difference, he would be smashing the corpses face right into Mickey’s. His eyes darted back and forth hurriedly, and shouted “Mick!” as soon as the solution occurred to him.

He shifted his body and Mickey looked off to his side. Ian now held the bat in a golfer’s stance, about to swing down like a club to a golf ball.

“Mick!” He said with more urgency, and the older man inhaled sharply, pressing his lips together and closing his eyes. He pushed upwards with his fingers as far as they would reach.

Ian’s downswing caught the corpse in the temple, causing an explosion of brain matter to spray across the wall between the doors the follow-through of his bat. The fabric hanging from the coat hooks now soaked in blood and corrupted tissue.

Mickey’s attacked slumped off to the right, and Mickey frantically pushed his way out from under him. He shuffled over to the dryer to grab the towel sitting on top, scrubbing the insides of his assaulter off of his face.

“A LITTLE FUCKING HELP?!” Ian turned to see Fiona pressed against the wall next to the window, the curtain wrapped tightly around the corpse’s head. It had its entire body weight slumped up against her, the shape of its head bobbing chaotically against her neck, searching for purchase.

Ian had an arm snaked around its neck and was pulling it backwards, barely making any ground when Mickey shouted, “Hold it still!” He rifled through the drawer and grabbed the large butchers knife, brandishing it with intent.

He strode quickly to the pair struggling in vain, and grabbed at the top of the fabric covered skull. As soon as Ian lowered his arm, Mickey jammed the blade into the lowest part of the back of its head. It jerked and immediately slid to the floor, the curtain unravelling slowly with its decent.

“Brain stem” Mickey panted. “You gotta… stab it at the bottom of its skull… top of its neck. Upwards, diagonally… fuck.” He leaned forward and rested his hands above his knees, trying to keep himself balanced and upright.

The creature landed with a slick sound on the tiles, its face staring up at the three of them. The middle had split apart from the first hit of the bat, the lower half of its skin flapped away from the bone of its nose socket.

Ian’s eyes darted down to Mickey’s, still slumped over in exhaustion. Mania and confusion flooded his eyes, his expression panicked and dumbfounded.

“Ain’t you guys ever seen a zombie movie before?” He stood up and slapped his hands at where his pockets would’ve been, had he not been clad only in his boxers. 

“Gotta hit the brain stem, or they jus’ keep fucking going.” He whipped his head around and scanned the kitchen counter, remembering he had left his phone upstairs where’d he’d been peacefully slumbering only moments ago.

“Gotta go make a phone call.” He scampered out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving Ian and Fiona shell-shocked and speechless.

Frank stirred lazily from the couch, half-asleep and oblivious to the bloody mess in the kitchen. “God, what a wake up.”


	2. Chapter Two

Ian blinked and looked around the kitchen. “What the fuck just happened?”

“According to your boyfriend, zombies.”

Fiona sounded close to hysteria, but her step was confident as she crossed to the bathroom, wrenching the door open to retrieve a quaking Debbie.

“It’s not ‘zombies’” Frank laughed, peering up at them from beneath his beanie, using his fingers to form air quotes around the word ‘zombie’ before losing his balance and slumping back down.

“Shut up, Frank” Ian and Fiona snapped in unison, the habit so deeply ingrained neither of them really noticed it.

“Fine, I shall keep my knowledge to myself. Wasted on you people anyway, and as for Ian’s pet thug, well I would have more luck explaining the complex scientific nature of the situation to a …”

“To a what, Frank?”

Mickey’s voice floated down the stairs, menacing in it’s sweetly curious tone and with a scowl. Frank retreated back into the shelter of his denim jacket without another word.

Ian placed a hasty kiss on Debbie’s forehead and gestured to the bodies on the floor. “It’ll be fine, Debs. Whatever the fuck is going on, it’ll be alright.”

Debbie nodded and pushed her hair behind her ears. “Should we get them out of the house?”

Fiona shook her head and rolled her shoulders anxiously. “No. We don’t open that door without … Jesus, I don’t know. Without a fuckin’ good reason, I guess.” She gestured toward the bathroom. “We’ll put them in there.”

“You guys got this?” Ian asked already moving toward the stairs.

“Yeah we’re fine, right Debs?” Fiona smiled encouragingly and Ian remembered all of the other times he has seen her smile stretched so tightly. Debt collectors at the door, medical bills from his broken collarbone, Monica arriving, Monica leaving, the fridge being unexpectedly empty at breakfast. He wanted to run back and hug her but she was already grabbing dead ankles and angling the first body toward to bathroom, so Ian bounded up the stairs to the only other person in the world who copes with the ever changing wheel of horse shit that was their life as well as Fi.

***

“Mick?”

Ian knocked lightly on his bedroom door and edged it open with his foot, sticking his head round cautiously. Mickey’s eyes flicked toward Ian but he held up a stilling hand, nodding along to something being said on the end of the phone by whoever he had needed to call.

“… Yeah bring those … mmhhm… well obviously those too … fuck it, man. Pack as much as you can fit in the fucking car and just get over here … How the fuck should I know, Iggy? … No funnily enough I didn’t have time to ask it what the fuck it was while it was trying to eat my face! … Was that a fucking gay joke? … Asshole. … Yeah … Yeah, you too. Later.”

Mickey hung up and tossed the phone lightly onto the bed. “You okay?”  
“I … No. Not really.” Ian shook his head, eyes far too wide and looked down at his hands realising that his fingers were shaking uncontrollably. Mickey stepped forward and wrapped one hand around Ian’s fingers, the other locking onto the back of Ian’s head, butting their foreheads lightly together.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t know if any of this is real” Ian whispered miserably. 

Mickey’s lip curled upwards slightly, and he gave Ian’s head a tiny shake. “It’s real. Don’t know what the fuck it is, but it is definitely real.”

“But …”

“Hey,” Mickey switched his hold so that his hands were on either side of Ian’s shoulders, squeezing him slightly to create a little pressure on Ian’s arms, rooting him in reality. “You could not imagine a body this fuckin’ perfect, if I tell you somethin’ is real – you can trust me. Okay?”

Some of the worry on Ian’s face eased as he smiled and nodded. “You do have really nice legs.”

“Damn right I do. And they’re still attached to the rest of me, thanks to you. Saved my ass, man.”

“It’s a great ass.” Ian took a shuddering breath and nodded to himself a few times. Bantering with Mickey was normal, it felt right, and it made him feel more himself. Brought things into focus and stopped some of the crashing white noise in his head. The force of Mickey’s personality was so loud that he always drowned out that horrible static for Ian. It was something he didn’t even know he did, and Ian loved him all the more for it. “Is Iggy on his way?”

“Yeah, he’s coming here and then we’re gonna go to Nika’s and check on Svet and the kid.”

“Wait … what?” Ian grabbed Mickey’s forearm hard enough to bruise, eyes suddenly wild. “Yevgeny isn’t safe?”

“He’s with Svet! She’d take out the whole of fuckin’ South Side before she let some creepy fucker near that kid.”

Mickey dislodged Ian’s grip and smoothed his hand down his arm, frowning. He liked being manhandled in certain situations, but those situations were very fucking specific and usually involved something being shoved in his ass or mouth moments later. 

“Where the Hell is Iggy?” Ian ignored the tone of his boyfriend’s voice and began looking frantically around for clothes.

“On the way back from a run, which is good cause he has most of what we need in his car already. When he gets here …”

“We gotta go, now.” Ian cut Mickey off and made a grab for what looked like it might be a shirt.

“What? No! We need weapons, Ian. We need a plan …”

“We need to make sure our son is safe.” Ian snapped. Mickey blinked, a little taken aback by the term ‘our’ – he more or less thought of the kid as Svetlana’s. He bit his lip, worrying along the length of it with his front teeth and gathered his thoughts.

“Okay fine, but you need to wash this shit off yourself first.”

“No time.” Ian grunted and now it was Mickey’s turn to grab him roughly and jerk him round to face him.

“You can’t go around stinking like blood and whatever that other shit is. The scent might attract more of them.” Mickey gestured to their blood streaked clothes and Ian glared at him, clearly looking for the angle of play.

“You want to make sure the baby is safe? Right. First part of that is not being a dumb prick. C’mon.”

Mickey tugged Ian through to the bathroom and slapped the shower on impatiently. Ian followed shrugging out of his tank and boxer shorts and knocking Mickey’s cautious arm aside as he reached to test the water, stepping under the freezing, spluttering jet without second thought.

Mickey jumped back as cold water splashed against his bare legs and pursed his lips. He knew that as soon as Ian was clean, he was going to get Yevgeny, with or without Mickey. Ordinarily that would have actually been preferable to Mickey but there is no way he wants Ian out on the streets with zombie freaks like ones that just attacked them potentially round every corner. He hesitated a moment longer, and then flared his nostrils irritably and slipped his boxers to the floor. Ian turned off the freezing cold stream, chancing better luck as Mickey stepped in behind him.

 

  


 

The pipes creaked and groaned as the water returned just as cold.

“Fuck!” Mickey’s hands instantly flew to his armpits, his arms crossed protectively over his bare chest as the freezing water hit him. His teeth started chattering and he curled his toes tightly, breathing shallowly through tightened lips. Ian seemed completely oblivious. He was focused on scrubbing his arms with a bar of soap and although his back was covered in goosebumps, his expression was neutral. This annoyed Mickey almost as much as the fact that Ian couldn’t just wait for the water to heat up.

“Ay, gimme the fuckin’ soap before I freeze my nuts off.” He snapped, jabbing Ian’s calve with his foot. Ian smirked and held it out and Mickey knew from the look on his boyfriends face that there was about to be some stupid joke about dropping the soap in the shower.

“Not in the mood, Gallagher.”

“But I didn’t even …”

“Not in the mood,” Mickey repeated as he scrubbed the bar up and down his torso, the water around their feet turning a rusty red. Ian shrugged and washed the blood out of his hair, his stomach turning as something spongey squeezed between his fingers and plopped into the basin at his feet.

Mickey, who was far more familiar than Ian with washing the evidence of a serious fucking beat down away, understood the issue and overcame his irritation. He reached out to crook his finger beneath Ian’s chin and lifted it.

“Don’t look. Just focus on me.”

Ian nodded and they awkwardly traded places, shuffling around each other so that Mickey could do his own hair.

“Remember the last time we were here together?” He asked, more to distract Ian than to spark an actual chat.

“Wheelbarrow under water.” Ian smirked fondly, the memory of Mickey’s thighs clenching around his hips, and the dip and swell of Mickey’s shoulder’s flexing beneath the trickle of water and soap suds as he braced his forearms on the bottom of the tub.

Mickey was remembering looking between his elbows, seeing Ian’s broad feet planted solidly as he supported them both, the muscles straining in his legs and he rammed home again and again and Mickey not being able to do more than brace and take it …

The shower shuddered and freezing turned to scalding water.

“Shit!”

Both men leapt out, not completely clean but decidedly better than they had been.

“Your house is a fucking death-trap!” Mickey glared at the tub, his happy memory from moments ago shoved rudely aside to make room for his new outrage.

“It’s full of rotting corpses now too. Glad you don’t use Trip Advisor.” Ian said nonchalantly and saw Mickey give him the side-eye with an expression torn between amusement and the urge to do violence.

“You are not funny.”

“I am.” Ian nodded happily and placed a small kiss on Mickey’s shoulder as he leant around him to get a towel which he roughly wiped over his back, chest and legs.

“C’mon, get dressed. We need to get Yev and Svet.” Ian patted Mickey’s ass affectionately as he draped the damp towel around his shoulders and ran back to the bedroom.

“Can’t we just get the kid?” Mickey called, scrubbing his own legs dry.

“No! We’ll bring them both here.” Ian yelled back, the smile evident in his voice.

“Perfect.” Mickey muttered darkly, chucking the towel down, giving the shower one last glare and then following Ian to get dressed and go rescue his bitch wife and the kid.


	3. Chapter Three

“What the fuck, Ian?” Fiona’s shrill, frantic voice carried through the kitchen and smacked Ian in the back of the head. He braced his shoulders and turned toward his sister. Her naturally disheveled hair had taken on a life of its own, giving new meaning to bad hair day. The eye make-up she’d put on in preparation for court was smeared down her face and her tight black skirt was covered in blood and brain matter. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Get your ass in this kitchen right now or so help me fucking god!”

The surge of annoyance Ian had felt when he’d heard her high-pitched squeal faded when he really looked into her face and saw the terror that had tried to envelope him. During his shower with Mickey, Ian had felt a kind of calm focus replace the panicked frenzy that had been crowding his brain. He finally had a mission and that’s what he’d been preparing for his whole life: a mission, a purpose, a reason for his existence.

Shoulders set and jaw tensed, he strode through the living room and entered the kitchen. After spotting a lost looking Debbie sitting at the kitchen table, his eyes made their way to a couple of bloodied sheets pushed to the corner near the washing machine, a dark red trail leading from them to the refrigerator. Frank was propped up against the sink, a flask in his hand. “Fiona, you’re really letting the place go. Is this any way to raise a family?” His nose curled as he looked at what had to be a chunk of flesh on the butcher block island.

“Shut the fuck up Frank, and where were you when hell was unleashed in here?” Ian stared at him with the usual combination of disgust and dumbfounded amazement. Who the fuck blissfully woke up to a bunch of fucking zombies attacking and doesn’t notice? Fucking Frank, that’s who.

“Hell is a mental construct used to—,” he began lifting his flask toward Ian and Fiona in a salute.

“Jesus, Frank, you smell like a brewery gone bad,” Mickey spat as he entered the kitchen, his dark hair still wet from the shower. “What’d ya fuckin’ do take a bath in your goddamn still?”

“It was at my dearly departed mother’s knee that I learned the true value of the hair of the dog.” With that he tipped the flask to his lips and choked a little as the liquid hit his throat. With spittle dribbling down his stubbled chin, he added, “Well, this new batch has a bit more, shall we say, bite.”

He offered the flask to Mickey, who started to accept it, but ended up flapping his hand at Frank instead. “That shit’ll kill ya, man. I tried the last batch and had the shits for a week. No fuckin’ thanks.” He turned to Ian. “You ready to go, Gallagher?”

Fiona came out of the momentary trance she was in and turned on Ian. “You aren’t going out there!”

“Fi, Carl and Yev are out there and I’ve got to protect them,” he said and caught sight of Mickey out of the corner of his eye. “We’ve got to save them.”

“Oh god,” she replied, her hand covering her mouth. “Carl! I’m supposed to be meeting him at the court house right now! If I’m not there to post bail, he won’t be released. And if he is released, he’ll be out there in, in whatever that is!” Her hand waved vaguely at the bathroom door.

Ian watched them all look at the door in various stages of horror. Fiona and Debs looked shell-shocked, Mickey looked un-amused and Frank looked a little green around the edges and really sweaty. There wasn’t much separating him from the mutilated corpses in the bathroom anymore.

“FiFi.” A tiny voice carried into the kitchen. Fiona spun around to Liam, standing behind her on the steps leading to the second story.

“Liam!” She reached out to grab him, but he recoiled from her. “What sweetie?”

He pointed at her skirt. “Oh my god. Gross!” She frantically grabbed at the zipper on the back of her skirt and once it was open, she pushed it over her hips and kicked it across the floor like it was attacking her. Mickey grabbed a pair of grey U of C sweatpants off the dryer and threw them at her.

“Thanks,” she all but sobbed. Then scooped Liam up and held him against her chest. “Fine, bring my family home to me in one piece, Ian. And that includes Lip.” Her hand was in Liam’s soft curls now, rhythmically rubbing and soothing both her and the little boy.

“You have my word,” Ian responded, his teeth bared slightly in menace. “Ready to roll, Mick?”

“Oh, I am, Ian,” Mickey snarked, slipping a smoke between his lips. “How could I not be ready to go outside and face a horde of flesh eating soulless corpses?”

“No smoking in the house,” Fi said absently.

Mickey’s eyes bugged out a bit, but he put the lighter back in his pocket leaving the smoke between his lips. Like a pacifier, Ian thought fondly. He couldn’t blame his boyfriend for needing it. During the three years they’d been together, no more than a day had gone by without some sort of shit for them to deal with, and the last while most of that shit had fallen on Mickey.

Ian was who was gonna handle this shit. It was his turn to shoulder the--

BANG! BANG! The casing around the backdoor shook with the force of whatever hit it.

“Fuck me sideways,” Mickey barked as he moved closer to Ian who had grabbed the bloodied bat from the floor near the door. “Don’t open that door, Ian.”

BANG! BANG!

A muffled curse about cocksucking drifted through the wood door. “Okay, open it.”

Iggy stood on the back porch with a slightly distracted scowl, which turned to indignation when Ian grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “What’s going on, Mick?” he asked surveying the room while all eyes stared back at him. “You sounded like Colin on a bad Rohypnol trip when you called. Something about brain stems?”

Mickey stuffed his smoke behind his ear and opened the bathroom door a crack motioning for his brother to look inside. “Woah, that’s nasty, dude. What did they drink? Smells like a fucking Milkovich family reunion.”

Frank leaned over Iggy’s shoulder to have a look. “Zombies.”

“Yeah, you’d know,” Mickey retorted.

“In point of fact, I would know. I was once a desired test subject during a highly secret military research project sponsored b—”

“Get to the fucking’ point, Frank. We’re not tryna get into the Ivy tower.”

“Well, before I was rudely interrupted, I was going to say that these corpses have the distinctive features of the undead. The bulbous nose, the—”

“Frank!” Fiona yelled. “We can see that they look like zombies! Can you add anything helpful to this conversation?”

“Ungrateful spawn,” he mumbled scrubbing the week’s worth of growth on his chin. “A zombie is a dead body that performs life-like behavior because it is controlled by a living pathogen.”

“A what?” Mickey demanded.

“Living path—”

“We fuckin’ heard you, but we don’t fuckin’ know what that is. Speak English, man.”

“It’s like a virus, Mick,” Ian added closing the bathroom door. “So you’re saying these guys have been infected with a virus?”

“Essentially,” Frank took a step back and fanned his face. “Horrible aroma.”

“Comin’ from the bouquet over here,” Mickey retorted then turned to his brother. “You seen anything out there, Ig?”

“Nothin’. Been on the road all night. Got your call just after I dropped off Colin and Jamie. Came straight here cause you sounded like Ian when—like you were high or something.”

“Iggy, you fu—,” Mickey took a step toward his brother, but Ian placed a hand on his arm to calm him.

“It’s okay, Mick,” he said once they’d made eye contact. “Let’s stay focussed. We need to get to Yev and Carl.” He turned to Fiona. “Text him and let me know when you hear from him.”

A quiet came over the occupants in the kitchen. It was in fact highly probable that they would never all be together again. That whatever this was, whatever was out there was going to be more than even a Southsider could handle.

Ian and Mickey put their jackets on and Ian grabbed the Gallagher baseball bat. It had served him well. Laying it over his shoulder, he left the house with his boyfriend and his brother, the heavy scent of apocalypse in the air around them.

Silently they made their way down the back porch heading toward the alley where Iggy had parked the Buick. Ian glanced at the leaf laden swimming pool, remembering floating aimlessly in it what felt like a lifetime ago. Before his eyes could shift back to the alley, a shadow moved from the side of the house and a second one from behind the porch stairs.

“Mickey!” he yelled lifting the baseball bat into hitter stance. Mickey grabbed the metal lawn chair to his right and closed it flat while spitting out a command to Iggy to get the guns. Ian could hear him running across the backyard toward the Buick.

Mickey and Ian stood side by side facing the two looming, decaying creatures. The moans reached their ears before the stench of sewer and rot reached their nostrils, the outstretched bloody hands grasped at them as vomit riddled jaws opened to gnash on their youthful living flesh.

“I fucking love you!” Ian shouted at Mickey, and as a unit they attacked. The impact of their makeshift weapons disoriented the creatures but only for a moment. Moving to the side, Ian brought the bat down twice in quick succession straight to the occipital bone, then with one final upward swing, the thick end of the bat struck the rotting jaw with enough force to send it backwards into the brackish water of the pool.

Ian turned immediately to Mickey, who was bashing the metal legs of the lawn chair into the creeper’s outstretched arms. Before Ian could lift the bat, the stiff, claw-like fingers grasped the edge of the lawn chair and pulled, yanking Mickey forward until his face was inches from the creature’s stinking mouth. A black coated tongue protruded making its way toward lips Ian wasn’t willing to share with anyone least of all a grotesque meat bag.

He lifted the bat and, in almost the same instant that he heard the gunshot, he felt the impact of the rotting creature hit his chest. He stumbled backward toward the pool but twisted his body in time for the nearly headless corpse to hit the side of the pool. The impact knocked the stabilizer out of the vertical support and the side of the pool collapsed outward.

Leaping back, the two men dodged the wave of 7000 gallons of cold fall water and two brain dead zombies. By the time they reached the alley and the waiting Buick, they were running on the dregs of an adrenaline rush like they’d never felt before.

“Holy fuck!” Mickey shouted. “Did you see us, Iggy? Fucking Grimes and Dixon.”

Ian’s heart was pounding, and his breath was coming in short quick bursts. His eyes travelled to Mickey’s chest, and he watched it rise and fall, his own heart matching the rhythm. Like always. The two of them somehow always beat in sync. Their eyes met and Ian was on him. Their lips crashed together, and Mickey’s ass met the quarter panel of the car as Ian wrapped his arms around him.

Tongues and breath and moans.

“I fucking love you too,” Mickey groaned into his mouth. Ian wanted to get him up on the trunk and force his legs apart, and Mickey didn’t appear to have a problem with that at all. When Ian’s hand reached down to his thigh and pulled it up to his hip, Mickey’s arms came around his neck.

And another gun shot rang out. 

“I’d rather watch two zombies going at it,” Iggy complained, lowering the shotgun to his side. Awkwardly, they pulled a part and Mickey scowled at his brother like he’d pissed in his corn flakes.

“Open the trunk and stop lookin’ at me like that.” His middle finger lifted almost as high as his eyebrows. While Iggy inserted the key into the trunk lock, Mickey peeked at Ian and their eyes smiled just slightly at each other. Then all three men looked into the dark recesses of the Buick’s trunk.

“We need fuckin’ guns. Lots of guns. Big fuckin’ guns,” Mickey announced. To no one in particular.

 


	4. Chapter Four

Carl Gallagher strode through the metal doors as they swung open with a clang. With his chin up and his head held back, he made his way past the crowd of supporters, all gathered to send him off. The guard releasing him kept a respectful distance, purposely trailing behind.

“Deuces, fam.” He high fived and bumped fists with the associates he surrounded himself with over the course of his stay. The chanting grew louder with the increased stomping of feet.

“White boy Carl! White boy Carl!” Pumped by the adrenaline, he cheered back and banged his fists against the metal bars. “Yo!” The cheers and clanging grew louder, and Carl hyped up the crowd as he finished his parting goodbyes and exited his side of the building. South side Chicago was about to meet a whole new Carl Gallagher.

He turned the corner into Skinhead territory, and came to a stop when he saw his young cousin holding the bars loosely on the other side. He held Chuckie’s gaze as a wave of unexpected tenderness came over him. 

The kid may not have had much potential to begin with and made a shitty excuse for a mule, but the swastika his psychopath mother had inked into his forehead meant that his days of being an innocent kid were long over. And he was the reason Chuckie was in here to begin with.

He considered saying something, anything to the kid, but thought better of it as he eyed the older neo-Klan members surrounding him.

Carl rolled his eyes and walked away, steeling himself for who he needed to be the moment he left, now that he was deep in the game.

“C’mon, man, this way.” Andre led Carl down a hallway towards the janitorial closet, checking over his shoulder to make sure the other guards hadn’t noticed the break in protocol. Carl eyed the door with disgust. “We can’t just do this out here?” Andre shook his head, “Nah, too many cameras. Can’t risk my job, man. Not after last week.” 

Carl snickered. Andre wasn’t that much older than he was, and Carl had far more power in this place than he did. But he had to admit that for a guard who was on the take, his squad could do far worse than Andre. The man knew how to keep shit handled.

A minute later, Carl walked out of the closet with a new burner phone, $500 in cash, and a slip of paper with an important contact number on it. They headed back towards the exit, maintaining impassive expressions. 

The desk clerk slid him his bag of belongings as Andre called to open the last door between Carl and his future. He schooled himself to keep walking straight ahead, not allowing anything to stop his departure from the Cook County Juvenile Temporary Detention Center.

He couldn’t let anything interfere with the plans that were explained to him the night before. All the right people knew his name, now, and he wasn’t going to blow his chance to shine. 

He walked out the doors to the overwhelming brightness of the Chicago sun at noon, covering his squinting eyes as they scanned the street at the end of the path.

He pulled out the burner phone and the slip of paper, entering in the numbers carefully. It only rang once before the other side picked up. Respect.

“Yo, where you parked?”

***

Still feeling the blood pulsing through his veins, Mickey was rambling off orders from the passenger seat with fervor. “We gotta hit the stash at home first, then when Sully shows up we head over to see uncle Joe at the foundry.”

“We find Yev and Svet first!” Ian insisted loudly from the backseat. Feeling nothing but adrenaline and a growing desire to bash some zombie skulls, Mickey let his lover’s tone roll off his shoulders. “Right. We find the whore and the kid, and then… fuck, Iggy, what?” He knew that look too well.

Iggy tried to maintain his sneer of tough disinterest while clearly squirming at the question. “Well… you said not to let her back in the house, but…”

“Jesus Christ, Ig, I asked you for one fuckin’ thing.” The older brother didn’t correct him as he continued, “She wouldn’t listen! Said her girlfriend went all junkie on her, like she got all crusty looking and wouldn’t shower, kept puking up blood and shit… Didn’t want the kid around that.” When Mickey’s stare didn’t waver, he added, “She kept waving that clawhammer around, staring at us all bitch-eyed. You know how she is.”

“That’s great. Great fuckin’ job, man. Now I gotta deal with twice as much bullshit.” He tapped the back of his knuckle to his nose in disgust and glared out the window.

Ian leaned in from the backseat. “They’re there at the house? Are they safe? Have you heard any sounds outside of the house, like a scratching, or a moaning, or…”

The car skidded to a stop as Iggy pointed straight ahead. “There she is, about to cross the street.”

The unmistakable form of Svetlana, dressed up in yet another outfit from Ian’s stolen suitcase phase, was approaching the corner of the intersection. A sleeping Yev was bundled up in his stroller; her stilettos kicking up pebbles in her wake.

Mickey hopped out leaving the car door open in his rush to reach them. “Ay- AY! Svet! Get in the car. We gotta talk.”

The brunette turned and landed an icy glare directly between his eyes before looking him up and down, unimpressed. “You look like shit.” Any mockery meant to be inflicted by her words were drowned out by the deadly tone in her voice. “You leave, now. Your home is with Orange Boy. We live in house. We are family. We do not need you.” She glanced up at Ian, quickly approaching from the car as Iggy remained within the relative safety of the driver’s seat. “Or your batshit boyfriend.” She gripped the handles of the stroller tighter and tilted it away from Ian, trying to keep Yevgeny out of their view.

Mickey turned to Ian with a terse, “Grab the kid”, and dropped down, picking up Svet by the back of her legs, and throwing her over his shoulder. Ian froze as he watched Mickey walk away with his raging wife screaming bloody murder.

He carefully swung the stroller in his direction. Yev’s bright blue eyes were focused on him as he came into view. He balled up a fist and stuck it in his mouth.

“Hey, Yevy…” Ian crouched low and rested a hand against the baby’s soft cheek. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“IAN!” Neighbors were starting to notice the commotion, though no one stepped forward to interfere. “Be right there, Mick!” He surveyed the stroller, trying to gauge the best way to remove Yev, grab the blankets, fold up the stroller, and fit everything into the Buick.

There was a pedal in the back that connected to the bars, seemingly placed to collapse the stroller if need be. He stepped on it while bracing the handlebars, and then stomped against it when nothing happened. With furrowed brows, he glanced around for a button that served him better.

“IAN, GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!” Mickey had most of his body leaning into the backseat, holding a flailing, face-down Svetlana from moving with all of his bodyweight. It was a battle he was quickly losing, as her stiletto-clad feet kicked up frantically, narrowly missing his crotch.

Ian scooped up the entire stroller with both arms, and trotted quickly to the open passenger door, sliding into the seat next to Iggy.

Tires squealed loudly as the car propelled forward, Iggy pressing heavily on the gas pedal. The fighting in the backseat paused long enough for them to lift their dangling legs away from the road beneath them as the car sped out of sight.

***

“You spent all this time giving me shit about NOT being home, and now that I’m home, you’re gonna try and keep me outta my own house? Not fucking likely.”

He breathed heavy with frustration, only slightly distracted by Ian darting from window to window, peering through the curtains for anything suspicious.

“We have nowhere else to go.” He saw the unspoken plea behind her tough exterior; one she would never admit to, and would probably belittle him for pointing out.

Sighing, he rubbed his hand down his face. “Just… go back to Nika’s, okay? Can you do that? Please?”

“You bring us here.”

“Needed to get you off the streets.”

Colin giggled from the couch as Jamie passed him the blunt and reclined into the couch to enjoy the show.

He flipped his older brothers a “C” finger and tried further. “I’m trying to keep you safe, alright?”

Ian spun away from the window and grabbed Svet by the shoulders. “There are zombies out there. They’re real. They tried to kill us. Twice.”

An “Oh shit…” could be heard from the couch, followed by more nervous giggling. Jamie was about to make a snarky insight comparing the upsides of manic hallucinations to the expensive psychosomatic visual and auditory side effects sought after by his customers, but thought better of it with one sharp glance by his youngest brother. 

Ian stared searchingly into Svetlana’s eyes as all emotion drained from her face, leaving their connection cold and empty. “This is what you desert innocent child for? To play games?”

Mickey buried his face into both of his hands in defeat, about to defend himself when he heard Ian respond. “I didn’t desert him. I love Yevgeny.” Mickey looked up in surprise, realizing for the second time that day that Ian had played a far larger role in the Milkovich household that he’d taken the time to notice.

“I fed him. I sang to him.” His eyes began to well up as her looked down at the baby in her arms. “I love him.”

“You kidnap him. You took him away from his mother. His home. What if something happen?” She took another step closer. “What if police not find you, and you keep going? You are not responsible. He could have died.”

He blinked away tears as he struggled against her words. He would’ve never let Yev into harm’s way. He was never in danger… was he?

Mickey stepped forward with a cautious hand held straight out. “Svet? Those fuckers are real. Just like in the movies. Faces melting off and everything. Tried to kill me. Ian saved me, and now we’re going to get you and Yev somewhere safe. Now please, just…fucking… get his carrier, or something. That piece of shit stroller’s gonna get you both killed.”

She let her gaze linger on Ian a moment longer, letting the torment build and fester in his mind. When she walked away, Mickey clamped onto both sides of Ian’s face. “Hey! I need you with me. Okay? You’re fine. I need you here.”

Ian nodded and locked eye contact with the darker haired man. Mickey ran a hand up Ian’s cheekbone and cupped his face closely, pulling their foreheads to rest against each other. “Can’t do this without you, man.”

“We bringing the Stinger?” Iggy inquired. “I got two full duffel bags here. It ain’t gonna fit.”

“You’re not going to fit a missile launcher into a duffel bag.” Jamie stood slowly, pressing both hands into his knees for support. “And I’m bringing the Stinger.”

“Who’re we shooting?” Colin rubbed his eyes and drew near the ammunition cabinet. “Dudes dressed up as zombies?”

“The zombies are fuckin’ real, bro.” Iggy set the bags onto the ground and inspected their Barnett Game Crusher 3.0 Crossbow. “They’re, like, Walking Dead real.”

“If you trapped ‘em in a sewer for a month, first.” Mickey eyed the Stinger regretfully, knowing he had too much riding on him to be able to use it properly.

Ian retreated into the entryway, shuffling around in the closet.

Jamie ambled towards Mickey as Colin hefted up a Remington 870. “Were their faces really melting off?” Mickey shook his head. “More like…hanging away from their skulls. Like, drooping? You know?”

Iggy grabbed for the Remington and traded the Crossbow to Colin. “I’m gonna be like Terminator.” He tried holding the gun vertically and cocking it with one hand, fumbling to catch it as it slipped from his loose grip. “Fucking watch it!” Mickey and Jamie shouted in unison.

Ian rejoined the group holding a long handled axe. “We have an axe? Since when? The fuck would we ever use an axe for?” Mickey scrunched his eyebrows together and gestured searchingly.

Ian took a wide berth from the group and took a hard swing, perfectly mimicking a checked swing position like a batter on the mound, stopping exactly where a head might be.

The boys nodded in approval.

“Hey, you guys see that scene in Terminator? Where the chick is, like…” He grabbed the barrel with both hands and lifted it upwards, flinging the gun up and letting it slam downwards. “Hang on…”

Svetlana marched up from behind him with force, Yevgeny strapped to the front of her chest in a baby-bjorn. His little legs dangled freely as she yanked the Remington from Iggy’s grip and cocked it with one hand, swinging the stock up and grabbing the pistol grip with the other hand. “You would make poor Sarah Connor.”

She turned and faced Mickey, aiming the muzzle back up towards the ceiling. With a thick, unimpressed Russian accent, she deadpanned, “Who is it we are going to kill?”


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is our contribution towards GW2018, for both Day 5- Family, and Day 7- AU based on a movie, book, or other tv show.

Carl typed out a quick text to Fiona letting her know he was out and had shit to do so not to call him unless it was urgent. He was a man, now. He had this shit covered. He thought about the money he could send her once he got paid from his first job and grinned. He wasn’t at college like Lip and he sure as shit wasn’t gonna be tall and loud like Ian, but in his own way, Carl was slamming into the adult world and it felt amazing.

His burner beeped and he glanced down at it dispassionately.

**Fiona: Carl! Weird shit in South Side. Attacks. Mickey and Ian handling it. Zombies. Stay safe. Call me.**

He frowned and re-read the message. Weird shit and attacks weren’t new for South Side. Mickey and Ian were apparently still together. That was good, Carl liked Mickey and thought he was a good fit for his big brother and Ian was good for Mickey too. Able to reach shit on the high shelf. Good combo. Zombies though? He had no idea what that was. Maybe Fiona was calling Ian and Mickey zombies because they …? Carl pondered as he plodded down familiar streets towards his neighbourhood. What did zombies even do? Groan and eat people? Eat men? Was his sister making a gay joke?

Carl shook his head. Not cool, Fi. Not cool.

He rounded the corner and sighed as the familiar school building came into view. He hadn’t missed it much but it was still nice to be back on familiar ground. The holdall at his side thumped against his leg as he bounded up the steps and he considered his options. Selling guns to kids was perhaps a kind of low point but with school shootings on the rise, who needed guns more than kids? Carl ran a hand over his cornrows and glanced again at the doors. He could probably just walk in but going round the back might be better – less obvious. He grabbed a passing kid and explained what he wanted

“You want to come in the back?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you’ve been in juvie?”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, I’m not gay.” 

Carl sighed. Not cool. He half dragged, half carried the kid to the entrance he wanted to c… walk in.

“That door, dipshit! Sexual preference has nothing to do with logistics.”

The kid seemed intensely relieved and Carl realised that he had picked a well meaning idiot to help him.

“Just go get the door, asshole.”

 

***

 

Ian looked up from Fi’s text and nudged Mickey’s arm

“Carl’s out. He’s doing some business apparently.”

Mickey paused his half-hearted attempt at mastering the nun-chucks that Iggy had dug out the back of the weapons closet and looked round with a frown

“Drug or gun business?”

“What?”

Ian laughed, taken aback.

“Kid just got out of juvie. If he’s doin’ business it’s gonna be drugs or guns. Which one is it?”

“I don’t … Jesus Mickey! Carl just got out he’s not gonna … Hey! Who are you texting?”

“Fiona.”

“Wh… How do you even have her number?”

Ian narrowed his eyes instantly (and correctly) suspecting an uneasy alliance had formed between his sister and his boyfriend during his depression.

“Just do.”

Mickey’s illuminating answer did nothing to cool the flickering flames of Ian’s irritation.

“Well can you just not?”

“Can you just not make a thing of this right now?”

Ian resisted the urge to flick the dismissive eyebrow that arched at Mickey’s words and folded his arms.

“I would just like to know why the fuck…”

“Ian.”

Mickey’s patience, thinner than usual after a nasty nun-chuck misfire earlier, expired as he fired off his question and turned to face his red-headed hot-head.

“Right now, even if me and your sister text every mornin’ to coordinate our fuckin’ outfits, it doesn’t fuckin’ matter! If Carl is sellin’ guns, we can use them. If he is sellin’ drugs … well I don’t really need any right now but it would still be good to fuckin’ know. So will you please …”

Whatever Mickey was about to politely enquire of his boyfriend was promptly cut off by a blood-curdling scream from the yard. The two men looked at each other, grabbed their chosen weapons, and ran.

They slammed out of the back door, axe and gun held aloft, ready to tackle more of the unholy creatures with festering skin and cannibal intentions.

“Fuck sake.”

Mickey closed his eyes and tried desperately to resist the urge to simply open fire.

Iggy was red in the face with fury, his blonde hair plastered to his head with some foul jelly-like liquid, chasing Colin around the yard with what had once been a human arm, but was now putrid, the skin hanging in greasy grey flaps.

Colin was managing to run, but was mostly doubled up with laughter, wheezing through puffs of his cigarette.

“Oh fuck, Oh fuck! Your face dude!”

“You fucking douchebag! I’m gonna shove this fuckin’ arm up your ass!” Iggy yelled. 

Ian blinked. He had never actually seen Iggy angry. Violent and reckless, sure. But never angry. It was weird.

“What happened?”

Iggy paused his chase to glare at the men on the porch.

“One of those fuckin’ creatures wandered into the yard and Joey took i’s fuckin’ head off with the bat and this FUCKING ASSHOLE,” He bellowed shaking the arm at Colin.

“Yanked its arm off and threw it at me!”

Mickey snorted with laughter and Iggy stiffened, “You think this is funny? You want some of this?”

He lunged toward the porch and, in the way of siblings since the dawn of time, Mickey made a sound like a stuck pig and ran back into the shelter of the house, dragging Ian in behind him and slamming the door.

“You can’t bring that shit in the house!”

He yelled through the screen-door as Iggy bounded up the steps. “Like fuck I can’t you little bastard!”

Ian was grinning like an idiot watching the show unfold. Seeing this glimpse into Mickey’s childhood, horrible as it was what with the rotting corpse limbs and all, was actually amusing enough to distract him from the fact that another of the creatures had got close to the house.

“Ig, calm the fuck down!” Mickey put his shoulder against the door as his big brother battered it with the arm, splattering the door with filth.

“I’m gonna kick your ass!” Iggy snarled back.

“Hey! Enough!”

A sharp command cut through the rest of the noise and both Milkovich’s froze. Svetlana stomped across the kitchen, Yev strapped to her chest like a mini-shield of honour. She shoved Mickey out of the way and yanked the door open, making Iggy take a couple of steps back in surprise.

“He started it!” Iggy grouched defensively and when Svet turned her hawk like gaze to her husband, Mickey spread his hands out palm up like a guilty little kid and shook his head firmly.

“Fuckin’ didn’t!”

“I do not care. Get rid of dirty arm. Stop yelling. We are ready to go.”

Iggy glared at Mickey one last time, but the surprise of Svet appearing armed with her best maternal stare had broken the shell of his temper and his face was returning to its usual shade. He tossed the arm across the yard and stomped inside, muttering about washing his hair.

Ian and Mickey watched him go, Mickey still looking sheepish but some of his usual bluster was returning and he rolled his shoulders experimentally.

“No more bullshit. And do not play with corpses in front of Yevgeny. Is unsightly. And unhygienic.”

Svetlana scolded her husband and then shook her head as if realising what she had just said.

It was not uncommon for her husband to allow some incredible levels of bullshit to infiltrate their life. First, he ruined her job with Sasha. Well meaning but a complete fuck up that Svetlana could well have done without. Then, he set her and the other girls up at that shithole of a bar with the giant retarded barkeep as their protector and warden. That Svet thought she could make something of but the man was devoted to his wife and she had decided to leave that route of enquiry alone for now. Once she had Yevgeny she thought things may improve but no, a few weeks later her husband decided to bring home his drugged-up, pimped-out, gay lover and dump him on her side of the bed. Of course. He could not simply make the best of things with her, oh no. Far too difficult, much easier to give into his urges and tip everything upside down. Asshole.

Svetlana took a deep breath through her nose. She had no problem with sexuality really and in fairness the manner in which she was introduced to Mikhailo had somewhat prepared her for where his predilections lay but it was still an inconvenience she did not need and one that she had not appreciated on Yevgeny’s behalf either.

However Carrot had proven to be better with Yev than his biological father and so Svet had learned to tolerate it. To survive one must adapt and Svetlana was nothing if not adaptable but then even Carrot, who changed Yev’s diaper and woke with him in the night whilst useless piece of shit actual-father slept, betrayed them both in the most spectacular way. He stole her baby and put him at risk and Svetlana would not forgive that.

She had thought he was gone, to the crazy house or some other place far away but of course he was back. Of course Mikhailo would let his pet Carrot boy back into his life never mind that he nearly killed his only son. Yevgeny now had two fathers, both unreliable shitheads without brains but both vital to her survival because she needed the house and she needed the money Mikhailo gave her.

So once again Svet had to adapt. Now she had to pretend to believe in zombies when any child over twelve could tell you such a thing did not exist. Well. Such was life and such was necessary.

She mumbled something in Russian that had Mickey giving her the side-eye as he was sure it was aimed at him and not complementary, and then shouldered a baby bag and headed out to the car.

Mickey’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Oh sweet! It’s guns. He’s at the school apparently.”

“With guns?”

Ian looked utterly horrified but Mickey simply shrugged, “Makes sense.”

Ian opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and then decided not to go there. “So what now?”

“We’re gonna go get your little brother and borrow his business associate’s stock.” Mickey grinned fiendishly.


	6. Chapter Six

“FiFi,” Liam tugged at Fiona’s t-shirt. She was almost too distracted to notice, but her little man wasn’t letting up, which was unusual for him. Glancing down at the big brown eyes, she noticed that his pajamas had a blood stain on the front and she tried not gag. The poor kid had been through enough without adding her drama to the mix.

“What’s up, Liam, sweetie?” she asked, all teeth and sing song voice.

Liam pointed to the living room, his little finger aimed like a gun at the old green sofa. Fiona followed the point and narrowed her eyes in a combination of surprise and disgust. What the fuck was Frank doing? She moved out of the kitchen toward the sofa, pushing Liam behind her.

Frank was half sitting half lying on the comforter he had pilfered from the upstairs bedroom, his feet on the coffee table and three of his toes peeking at her from his old wool socks. The legs attached to those socks were shaking a little, rhythmic spasms forcing his heels against the wooden table. But it was his face that really got her attention.

It was greyer than usual and the skin around his mouth was pulled so taut that it looked like he was grinning, but his eyes were closed.

Another few tentative steps forward and she stopped. Sammi was on the landing looking at her in contempt. Fiona returned the look and watched as the blonde bimbo came to loop her arms around Frank’s neck and peck his cheek. “Morning, Daddy.” She pulled back to crane her neck around to face Frank. “You’re so cold. Why don’t you come upstairs to bed?”

Fiona’s first instinct was to shout “No”. Frank wasn’t allowed upstairs, but at the moment having someone, even her bitch of a half sister, get Frank out of her face was a blessing she’d gladly thank god for. Frank appeared to agree as the grotesque grin on his face widened and he opened his eyes.

Then looked at Fiona. Bloodshot, bruised, vacant looking eyes stared past her.

She let out a startled puff of air and stepped backward right into Liam. With one hand behind her, she pulled Liam to her body, shielding him as best she could.

“OH MY GOD. WHAT’S WRONG WITH FRANK? JESUS! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?” Debbie wailed. She started to cry as she pushed past Fiona and ran up the stairs. Before Fiona could even react, a door upstairs slammed shut.

Frank’s neck swivelled weirdly as he followed the thudding noise, seemly interested in locating its origin.

“Um, yeah, good idea, Sammi. Take Frank upstairs.”

Sammi stood up, squinting at her. Looking for the catch, no doubt. “I don’t need your permission to look after my own father.”

“You need my permission to be in this fucking house,” Fiona snapped back. “Get him upstairs or I’m kicking his drunk ass to the curb. I don’t need his bullshit on top of all the other shit going on around here.”

“What other shit? It seems to me you have very little in the way of responsibility,” she gestured to the quiet house. “I have dedicated myself to returning this man to his full health.”

“Well good fucking luck with that. Upstairs or curb? Decide. Now.” She turned away, dragging Liam back to the kitchen. “Come on, sweetie. You still need to have breakfast.”

Once she reached the island, she snatched up her iPhone trying not to notice whatever substance was on the butcher block top. Pulling open the fridge door while texting her brother, she heard Sammi grunting and cajoling her useless excuse for a father up the stairs. Fuck, she was going to go mental if she had to hear the word “daddy” one more goddamn time.

“How about an apple?” she asked Liam, while sliding her thumb over the keypad.

Fiona: something up with frank

She watched Liam grab an apple and bite into it. Her own stomach grumbled but the nausea was too intense to even consider eating. God, what was she doing? She asked herself. Don’t look at the bathroom door, Fiona. DON’T DO IT. But from the corner of her eye, she peeked and the door was still shut.

That didn’t stop her overstimulated brain from thinking about it suddenly flying open and three horrifying creatures leaping out at her. Grabbing at her throat, mauling her body. Poor Liam screaming in—Fuck! Her knuckles pushed into her mouth to stop the moan. She needed to be in action, not cooped up with three dead—undead?—creatures.

“OW! Daddy, stop it! That hurt,” Sammi screeched from what had to be the top of the stairs. “Look! You left teeth marks. I’m bleeding!”

Fiona’s phone buzzed in her hand.

Mickey: you mean to text Ian?

Fiona: ya sorry.

Mickey: its fine. You want us to stop by on way to get carl?

Fiona: no it’s fi—

Another screech carried down the stairs to Fiona. “Fuck off Frank. That’s so gross. God! FIONA!”

Her thumb slid over the back arrow.

Fiona: YES!

 

“Who was that?” Ian’s chin pointed at Mickey’s phone. “Your bestie? Picking out matching ball gowns, Cinderella?”

Mickey had his dresser drawer open, and he stopped with the knuckledusters half way up his fingers. “What’d you call me?” Slowly turning around, he eyed Ian aggressively. Ian stared back unflinching, so he swaggered forward, and Ian retreated until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he dropped to the bed.

Mickey got up in his space, and Ian couldn’t help but reach a hand out to his hip. The gesture softened Mickey’s stance, and he looked down at the top of Ian’s head. He was thinking about kissing the red mop of hair hanging in his eyes, when he was startled from his thoughts by a shout.

“Not a-fucking-gain?! I can’t leave you two lovebirds alone for a fuckin’ minute,” Iggy complained at full volume. “Do fuckin’ zombies get you two horny or somethin’? Cause, man, I don’t see the appeal.”

“I’ve seen some a your porn, Ig, and I don’t think you’d know the difference,” Mickey growled back. “Frank is fucking around at the house. Fiona wants us to stop by on the way to the school.”

“What?” Ian popped up off the bed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Cause you’re being a fuckin’ girl about who I text,” he retorted, returning to his dresser and removing a couple boxes of ammo and a quick release switchblade, which he slid into his back pocket. He handed another to Ian. “Remember: the brain stem.”

Ian nodded. “Maybe we should separate. I’ll go to Fiona’s and you go to—”

“Never gonna fuckin’ happen, so you can shut your fuckin’ mouth.” He turned to his brother. “Ian ‘n me are goin’ to Fiona’s to deal with fuckin’ Frank and his bullshit. You ‘n the guys go to the school and get Carl’s artillery.” He could feel Ian’s eyes on him. “And Carl.”

“What ‘m I doing with the guns and the kid when I got ‘em?” Iggy looked blank.

Three sets of eyes met and shifted in confusion. They hadn’t gotten any further than getting their hands on as many guns and weapons as possible. No actual game plan had been established.

“Don’t know,” Mickey said quietly. “Well, Army, what ya got? Did big fuckin’ brother teach you any shit that’d be useful in real life?”

The change in Ian would have been boner inducing if it didn’t also come with the manic thought processes. His focus which had been zeroed in on who Mickey was texting now shifted to some sort of navy Seal with a vengeance. Mickey had seen this Ian before.

“We need to put on layers of clothing. Leather is best,” he began, smacking a fist against his palm. “Protect us from the bite. Then we need to set up a base of operations. We have no idea how long we’ll have power or how long this situation is going to last. We need supplies before the stores are cleaned out.” Spit was flying from his mouth as he spoke, and the pacing was getting under Mickey’s skin.

“Shit, Gallagher. I’m gonna need a pad and pen,” Mickey joked hoping to get his attention and divert this possible train wreck. He was making some good points though, and Mickey was mentally starting his own plan.

Ian’s eyes landed on him, but his face was humorless. “That’s a good idea, Mick. Take some notes.”

“Fuck you. I ain’t your fuckin’ secretary.”

“Bet he’d like you to play his secretary, Mick.” Iggy laughed at Mickey’s dark look.

Again the whole exchange seemed to go right over Ian’s head. “So we need to find out how widespread this thing is and we need to get everyone safe. If this is huge, then we gotta worry about people as much as zombies. Cause there’s gonna be widespread panic.”

“No fuckin’ kidding. I’d trust a walker before a human any day,” Iggy piped up. “Less selfish.”

Ian stopped in front of Mickey, all straight shoulders and pursed lips. “A job for the National Guard.”

Mickey tried to usher Ian out of the bedroom. “Come on, General Patton. Let’s go gather the troops.”

Fifteen minutes later, a loose plan was set in motion. Iggy, wearing both of his leather jackets, along with Jamie and Colin, stoned almost comatose, and Sully, were armed to the teeth and ready to roll.

“Okay, you know what you’re doin’?” Mickey asked, throwing his coat on.

“Goin’ down to the school,” Colin offered.

“And…” Mickey prompted, his hands making rotating motions and his eyebrow encouraging full disclosure.

“And what?” Colin asked.

“Relax, Mick. We got this covered. It ain’t ‘r first rodeo, bro,” Iggy pushed his brothers toward the door. Jamie reached for the knob, but Iggy called out, “Lock ‘n load first, dude. Could be a bodybag waiting ‘round the corner.”

Seven chambers were loaded. Z-poc was no match for a Milkovich.

“Svet, you’re between Ian and me.”

“So I can protect both idiots at same time?” she flicked a glance at Ian. “Get stroller, Howdy Doody.”

 

The drive to the Gallagher house was strangely deserted. No one on the sidewalk, no cars on the street.

“Fuckin’ spooky, man.” Mickey stuffed a cigarette in his mouth, and Svet reached across the seat to flick it with her long, painted fingernail. “Aye, what the fuck, bitch?”

“No smoke with baby in car. Is not rocket science.”

“The fuck you know about rocket science? You learn that shit in whore school?”

“Mick, what’s that?” Ian sat forward pointing out the windshield. They had pulled to a stop at the street corner, preparing to make a right. From the front yard of one of the two story houses a body lurched toward the car.

Before Mickey could accelerate, two bloody hands smacked against Ian’s side of the windshield. They watched the fingers slide down the glass leaving red streaks just as the creature’s lips suctioned to the window. Ian reared back almost flush against Mickey’s chest.

“Oh fuck, that’s disgusting. Look at that fucking tongue,” Ian said unnecessarily as none of them were capable of looking anywhere else. The black muscle slipped around the glass trying to eat its way through.

“Holy fuck. I’m never gonna be able to kiss you again, Gallagher. Cause that shit is burned into my fuckin’ brain for all of fuckin’ eternity.”

“I see worse on boat ride over here. Why you sit at corner? Drive, Miss Daisy,” Svet said. “Baby need fed.”

“Never eatin’ again either.”

“Okay, just drive away now, Mickey,” Ian said pushing a hand into Mickey’s jean covered knee.

Mickey slowly let his foot off the break, and they watched horrified as the tongue slid along the passenger’s side window and over to Svet’s backseat window. She lowered her window two thirds of the way, and Mickey stomped on the break.

“You fuckin’ crazy, woman? Close that—” but before Mickey could finish, she pulled a shiny silver butterfly knife from between her tits and flipped it open.

“Dead or alive?” she asked calmly.

“Fuckin’ dead, of course.”

She jammed it in the fucker’s eye.

Twice.

It fell backwards to the curb with a sickening thud, and Mickey peeled the fuck out of there.


	7. Chapter Seven

The beat up old sedan trudged its way along Trumbull Ave. with dark red blood streaks smudged down the windshield. Mickey tried applying the wipers, but the fluid was out, so the blades squealed as they pushed the blood back and forth.

“Gotta be fuckin’ kidding me…” He leaned forward in his seat, squinting to see through the dark crimson smears.

Ian glanced over his shoulder at Svetlana, staring longingly through the blood stains of her own window. Something mournful flashed over her features, painting her in an atypically delicate light.

“Hey, Svet, I was thinking… once we get to Fiona’s, we should keep Yev with Debs for a while. We can keep them hidden away somewhere safe, so that we can handle whatever comes at us without having to worry about… you know…”

“We need earplugs.”

“What?” Ian reached an arm back over his seat, turning his body into their conversation. “Earplugs?”

“For Yevgeny. We go to Nika’s, now.”

Ian shifted uncomfortably as Mickey rubbed his forehead in silent frustration. “Well, that’s what I’m saying. We’re going to need both hands free if we’re going to—“

“You cannot fire weapon in front of baby without protecting ears!” Her nostrils flared in his direction. “He will go deaf! Turn car around, we go now.”

“I’m not turning around shit. I don’t know if you got a good look at that zombie you shanked two fucking minutes ago, but Yev’s got bigger problems to worry about” Mickey spat.

“Baby’s eardrum will burst! Turn car around or we get out.”

“Mick… maybe we should just turn around. Fi will be fine. Frank’s got Sammi to take care of him. We’ll be 15 minutes late, tops.”

“You were just saying we hand him over to Debs. Sounds like a solid fucking plan to me.” He sniffed and checked his rearview mirror. “Besides, the kid not having to listen to her shrieking like a banshee his whole life sounds like a goddamn blessing. Shoulda thought of that for myself.”

“Mick, slow down! The cops!” He pointed ahead as Mickey slammed on the breaks, slowing down just in time to pass by a Sheriff’s SVU idling to the side in the intersection. They stared straight into the darkened vehicle to see two officers in uniform staring back at them.

Ian held his breath as the blood-streaked Buick rolled by, passing through without pause.

“Did we just run a stop sign?” Ian’s voice filled with panic.

“The car’s covered in blood and guts. I don’t think they give a shit about that.” He checked the side view mirror again just as the SUV turned, pulling up behind them.

“FUCK!” Mickey punched the steering wheel. “Trunks packed with every kinda weapon we got in the house! The fuck are we gonna do from JAIL?” He tensed as the lights flipped on behind him, flickering red and blue into their car. The siren wailed, hitting Ian straight in his chest.

“No no no no no, this isn’t happening. We have to get Yev out of here! Svet, can you jump and run?” She glared harshly in return.

Mickey hit the blinker and pulled the car over to the curb on the right. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, turning an even paler shade of white.

The SUV picked up speed as it careened around their left, barreling down the road and out of sight.

Mickey looked on in shock, his mouth left slightly agape. Ian leaned backwards into his seat, struggling to catch his breath. Yevgeny gurgled happily from the backseat.

Pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket, Mickey reached out and rested a hand on the top of Ian’s thigh. “We’re fine.”

“We can’t let them get us, Mick! If they stop us, they’ll arrest us!”

“Cops can kiss my ass.” He blew a plume of smoke and twisted his face up in a scowl. “Dumbfucks are probably just now figuring out shit we’ve been tryna settle all morning.”

Ian’s breath caught in his throat, and Mickey looked up into wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. “Mickey…” His eyes faltered, dragging down to the tattooed fingers splayed across his thigh. He wrapped his own long fingers around them and squeezed them tight.

Mickey watched on as a single tear trailed down Ian’s cheek. It was hard to reconcile the fragile emotional state his boyfriend was battling with the tough, assertive, fearless personality he’d fallen for years ago.

He followed suit and leaned back into the driver’s seat, taking a slow, deep inhale from his cigarette. Letting a long moment pass, he glanced up into the rear-view mirror, finding Svet’s eyes in the reflection, drilling holes of disdain into his cigarette.

“Mikhailo.”

Mickey squeezed his free hand into a fist, opening and pressing it forward in an impatient gesture. “One fuckin’ thing at a time, alright? Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” He took the car out of park and shifted into drive, circling the wheel all the way to the left and peeling out into the opposite direction.

 

***

 

The four men chain-smoked as they made their way down the virtually empty hallways of the high school.

“It's all about a girl who digs a guy with a big dick. The entire song is a metaphor for big dicks.” Jamie flicked his not-yet-finished cigarette towards the trash can as they rounded the hallway, almost making it in the basket.

“No, it ain't.” Iggy scrunched up his face in condescension. “…Wait, how do you know?”

“Saw it in a movie.” Jamie banged open the door to the men’s restroom, shoulder-checking a few teens on his way in.

“Yo, Gallagher?”

The line of students glanced toward the handicapped stall on the end. Jamie swaggered confidently in the direction of young voices echoing from between the walls.

“I need to buy a gun. For protection. In case there’s a shooting here. I’m scared.” Carl nodded in understanding. “Then let me soothe your nerves.” He pulled out a Glock from the top of the duffel bag.

  


“Wow.” The boy stood in awe as Carl cocked the gun, pulling back at the top of the barrel and letting it slide back into place.

“You, my friend, look like a Glock 17 kind of guy. And for a mere $300 all this can be yours.” He nodded confidently, watching the boy’s eyes light up.

“Can you teach me how to use it?”

A gruff voice called out over his shoulder, “You don’t know how to operate a Glock, then stick to pea shooters, kid. You’re gonna shoot someone’s eye out.”

The young boy responded, “You mean like in Plants vs. Zombies?”

“They’re letting you kids shoot the zombies, now? What, out in the open? Must’a pulled the sticks outta their asses since back in my day…” Jamie shook his head and smiled wistfully at the memories. The boy glanced uncertainly amongst the four men now surrounding the stall, all strapped with guns hanging from their waists. His silent plea for help prompted a “Later” from Carl, and he backed out of the stall and hurried out of the room.

Carl flashed an unimpressed look. “You’re a little old for high school, aren’t you?” Jamie chuckled as Iggy popped his head into the stall, “Hah! Good one, bro.” Carl straightened at the sight. “Iggy?” Iggy squished into the stall entrance, shoving his oldest brother into the wall. “Sup, Gallagher?”

“Is Mickey with you?” Carl’s demeanor brightened instantly. “I just got outta juvie, need to ask him something.” He blushed at his free admittance. Mickey had sometimes felt like more of a big brother to him than his actual blood siblings.

“Want us to smoke you down? Better celebrate that shit!” Iggy’s sideways grin grew bigger at the prospect. Carl shrugged nonchalantly. “Smoking the product is bad business. Cuts into the profits.” He eyed Colin and Sully loitering in the background. “What up, man?” Scrunching up his face searchingly, he turned back to the eldest Milkovich.

“Wait…are you Jamie Milkovich?” His eyes grew wide in astonishment. Running into the Milkovich brothers and their extended family was a regular occurrence, but the first son was never around when Carl stopped by to see Ian.

They could practically see Jamie preening at the recognition. “Shit, yo, you’re a legend! My boy Terrence said that you used to run Block C back in the day… had five different COs on payroll!”

Iggy laughed openly. “God damn juvie pigs are only loyal to that green!”

Carl continued with unbridled excitement, “Your street cred is off the chain! Is it true you got the nurse to blow you? Word is she put $50 in your commissary after.”

Jamie smirks and tilts his head forward. “You got the $50 part right, but it was me that blew her. I ain’t that charming…” The boys laughed. Iggy interjected, “Yeah, when I was there, shit, she would stare me down every time I walked by… I knew she wanted this.”

Sully giggled behind him, “She wanted a restraining order. You never showered.”

Carl continued unfazed. “They said you shanked some dude for trying to steal your cigarettes and had your boys stuff him down the trash chute.” Jamie shook his head. “Nah, that was pops, from his third stint in the can. The Milkovich name travels far, what can I say?”

Iggy cheesed hard. “Jamie thinks he’s the next Mafia don. Got that shit planned out on paper.”

“What? My mother’s full-blood Italian.”

“Pops is Ukrainian, STUPID! Ain’t you ever seen Goodfellas?”

“He’s right”, Colin contributed, still heavily baked, “The Chicago arm of the Mafia has never opened its doors to a half-breed, James.” The three boys snickered as Carl squinted in confusion.

Iggy puffed his chest out proudly, “Last time I got out of juvie, pops bought me a stripper!”

“Prostitute. Rented a prostitute” Jamie corrected.

Colin added, “10am prostitute.”

“What’s the difference?” Carl asked, genuinely interested in knowing.

“BIG difference… You’d know it once you saw it.”

Iggy shot Jamie a scalding glare. “She gave me a lapdance and then passed out on the couch. We didn’t even do nothin’! She was a stripper.” This caused an uproar from the men surrounding him. Carl tried unsuccessfully to stifle his burgeoning grin.

Iggy, not to be outdone, countered, “Ay, tell him how I got sent to juvie that last time, anyway! Pops was fuckin’ proud!”

Sully shifted uncomfortably. “He stole a couple a gas tanks from the gas station on the corner past that antique shop… the popo were already there for donuts, so they got a pretty quick headstart on him.”

“So I’m running down the alley with two heavy tanks, right? Picture me runnin’ with my cigarillo between my teeth… anyway, outta nowhere these other two pigs show up, so I got four of ‘em on my tail. So what do I do?” Iggy looked around excitedly. “Hurled the tank that was leaking behind me and threw my lit Zippo at it. Whole place lit up like a fireball!”

Silence permeated the men’s restroom. Carl was aghast. “That was YOU?”

Iggy beamed with pride. “Yep! Fried bacon for miles!”

“You almost set a gas station on fire you fucking mongoloid.” Jamie spat.

“No one got hurt. Police were pissed as hell, though.” Colin offered. “Took a while to get the gasoline smell out of those two blocks of back alleyway.”

Iggy’s brows furrowed as he stewed in the lack of melee at his heroics. “Fuck bitches, get money.” He rubbed his sweaty hands on his jeans.

“Anyway, what Iggy here is trying to say, kid, is that not all Milkoviches live up to expectations.”

“Or life expectancy.”

“You’re both welcome to suck my balls, you dumb bastards. At least I know how to handle a zombie without being a fuckin’ retard about it!”

Jamie’s slack-jawed, red-eyed expression gave him away. “Shit, kid, you made me forget why we were here. Heh heh… So, your brother needs your help.”

Carl hesitated; the word felt like a betrayal as it left his lips. “Ian.”

Jamie nodded. “He and Mickey said to collect you and head out so we can deal with this zombie shit from a…” He gestured in circles with his hand, “…More centralized location.”

“Zombie shit…” Carl nodded slowly, letting the word sink in. “You mean like bath salts?”

Another roar of laughter erupted from the stall, Iggy gradually warming up to the group again. He paused, felt around his left breast pocket, pulling out a crumbly, half-eaten Strawberry frosted PopTart and popping the pastry into his mouth.

Jamie scratched at the stubble on the side of his jaw. “We’re gonna need those guns, too. The whole shebang.” They all glanced down at the open duffel bag, a Beretta PX4 Storm draped across the top of the pile.

“Uh… yo, you gotta talk to my boys if you wanna buy the whole stock at once.”

Jamie sighed guiltily. “Fuck… sorry, kid. Didn’t mean for it to come down to this. It was my bad, I fucked up my introduction. Could’a handled this better, if I’m being completely honest with myself.”

Carl shifted nervously on the toilet seat, eyes darting around for the quickest escape. “What do you mean?”

Jamie pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket as Colin handed him a dark bottle, half-full of liquid substance that splashed around as Jamie tilted it into the rag.

Carl’s eyes lit up with realization just as Jamie slammed the rag over his mouth, clamping his hands around the front and back of Carl’s skull simultaneously. He squeezed tight as Carl struggled to yank his thick forearms away.

“Relax, kid, you ain’t in no harm. We’ll give you the good seat. Ig, make sure he gets the cushion that isn’t covered in piss.”

Iggy, still enjoying his PopTart, shrugged as he hooked the back of his foot around the duffel bag full of ammunition and slid it behind him. Colin snatched it up, zipping it and lugging the heavy weight with both hands.

Carl slumped forward, and Sully helped lift him carefully over Jamie’s broad shoulder. Backing out of the stall carefully, not wanting to bump the young Gallagher’s head into any walls, the men made their way out of the stall and towards the bathroom door.

Iggy glanced to the row of sinks at his side. “Oh, shit! Someone left their Mountain Dew here!” Iggy lunged for it, pleased with his unexpected find.

The group lumbered their way down the halls of the high school virtually unnoticed, most of the students having long since found their way to their classrooms. Jamie bounded along with ease, the Freshman slung across him surprisingly lightweight.

 

* * *

 

Svetlana eyed Ian’s still-shaking hand from her place in the backseat. Mickey’s hand hadn’t left Ian’s thigh, his thumb rubbing small circles into the seam of his jeans.

The car was parked in the driveway of the small, battered house Nika had been renting from an old customer. Svet stared down the front door, steeling herself.

“You remember that one time, that asshole Peterson was trying to get your brother to fight while everyone was running laps on the football field, and he kept saying that if he didn’t he’d go to your place and fuck your sister?”

“Are you talking about junior high, Mick? Lip got in so many fights back then…and C.J. Peterson never stood a chance with Fiona anyway.”

“Yeah, but you were there, too. And you guys got so pissed after he said that, and Lip started swinging at the dude… after he knocked your brother out, you walked up behind the guy, kicked the back of his knee to drop him, and landed a hard punch to the back of his skull? Douchebag was out cold.” Mickey smiled up at Ian. “You stood there towering over him like some scrawny, skinny asshole with a blood lust.”

“How would you know? We weren’t even in the same grade.”

“Watched you from under the bleachers. Was on a smoke break from class, riding out the Vicodin and Quaalude cocktail I snagged from the nurse’s office, but…” his hand trailed up and down Ian’s muscled thigh, “I remember that shit.”

Ian blushed, his pink cheeks a stark contrast from his pale, sickly-looking complexion.

Svet sighed impatiently and kicked at the driver’s seat in front of her. “You stay. Watch your son.”

Ian turned to face her as she opened her door, “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Nyet!” She cut him off, “You stay, also.” She stepped foot outside, pausing to add, “Do not kidnap baby while I am gone.”

Mickey whipped his head to the side, the scalding expression on his face evident. He opened the driver door as she slammed hers shut behind her. “Ay!”

She rolled her eyes and tilted her head in Mickey’s direction. “You got two minutes. Make it fucking snappy.” She scoffed and he slammed the door in her face.

“Whatever. Should leave her ass anyway. Bitch can stay and yell at her junkie girlfriend all day for all I give a shit.”

Ian turned around and rested his chin on the top of his seat, wrapping his hand around a tiny foot. He smiled down at the baby, feeling warmth spreading through his chest when Yev smiled back up at him.

“He’s so oblivious to all of this, look at him…” Ian was beaming. “He’s so happy. Like he’s got it all figured out. You have life all figured out, Yevy?” He spoke soothingly to the baby, delighting in his giggles, laughing as the infant’s little feet kicked in excitement.

“Ian…” Mickey squeezed Ian’s leg, drawing his attention back. “What you said before, about giving the kid to your sister, keeping them in hiding…” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Think that’s something we gotta do right away, as soon as we get there.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Shit’s just gonna get worse from here. Don’t see how it can’t.”

Ian gave Mickey his full attention, curling a hand around dark locks and running his fingertips along Mickey’s scalp. “I love you, Mick.” Blue eyes jumped up to meet his, betraying the surprised reaction to his statement. “There’s nothing more important to me in this world than you and Yev. I’m not going to let anything happen to either of you.” His eyes lingered on Mickey’s lips. “There’d be nothing left of me. I’d go through hell and back just to keep you safe—“ He stilled his fingers as he slowly tilted his face towards the front door of the run-down house.

Mickey pressed a kiss to the inside of Ian’s wrist. “Don’t gotta worry about me, you know that. Those fuckers ain’t quick enough to get me. They can suck on my Ruger and watch me empty the clip.”

 

***

 

The door creaked loudly, despite Svetlana’s best efforts. The run down house was in far worse condition than the Milkovich abode, something she’d never admit out loud.

She surveyed the empty living room with green eyes narrowed, taking in the subtle changes since she’d been there last. Used plates and cups that appeared to be several days crusted over lay abandoned on the coffee table, next to Nika’s phone and some empty beer bottles. The Price Is Right played on the flat screen in the corner, the cheerful applause from the speakers lending a creepy ambiance to the quiet stillness.

She kept her breathing slowed, training her ears to pick up on any low sounds emanating from the walls. Taking careful steps forward, she noticed dried vomit on the carpet floor behind the couch, trailing towards the kitchen. Peering around each shoulder, she crouched low and reached into the old pair of combat boots Mandy had left behind at the Milkovich house, retrieving the Trailing Point pocket knife from its hiding place next to her ankle.

Flicking it open, she eyed the narrow point, twisting the handle in between her fingers as she observed the curvature of the body. Getting a tight grip, she ventured into the kitchen. Several items lay askew on the counter, as if knocked over during a struggle. The tiled floor was littered with dishes and assorted personal items.

A dark trail leading from the sink to the floor caught her eye. She craned her neck to locate the black puddle amassed at the bottom. Stepping over the scattered clutter, she found what looked like a crime scene inside the sink; every dish inside coated in thick black goo, splattered up the sides and congealing around the drain. It looked as if someone had puked up bile, but the coppery scent wafting through the air hinted otherwise.

A loud thump shook her from her focused thoughts. She held her breath, gauging the distance between herself and the source of the sound.

She poked her head around the corner and made broad visual sweeps of the living room. The hallway to her right was darkened, every closed door blocking out whatever light may have filtered through the windows. Of course.  
Another thump rattled the doorway to their bedroom. Keeping her knife-wielding hand levelled, she crept forward, her other hand moving toward the handle.

A black, gelatinous substance dripped from the doorknob. She closed her eyes, reached forward, and gripped around it. Rotating it slowly, she braced herself and pushed hard against the wood.

The door flung open, fanning a wave of putrid odor around her. She held the back of her bloodied hand against her nose, fighting off the violent gagging threatening to shake her slender frame.

She propelled into the room with her arms braced up, hands out for protection. The blade of her pocketknife faced outward, ready for attack.

She’d made it halfway through the doorway when the door slammed closed, trapping both of her arms between wood. The loud snarling from inside the room stifled Svet’s pained scream. She slammed the door back with all of her body weight, trying to knock Nika backwards enough to free herself. Filled with adrenaline, she shoulder-checked her way in.

She stumbled forward from the force of it, giving Nika the split second needed to reach a molting hand onto Svet’s head, digging rotting flesh into a large clump of her hair. With inhuman strength, she pulled Svet’s head down to her own kneecaps, hovering a couple feet above the floor, rendered entirely immobile at the severely bent angle.

She slashed wildly at Nika’s bared legs, slicing the back of her knee open enough to collapse any other attacker to the ground. Undeterred, Nika lunged forward, gnashing her teeth towards the exposed skin on Svet’s lower back where her shirt had fallen down.

Svet, in a moment of blind faith, lifted her arm up and backwards. She couldn’t see past her own legs, let alone reach the back of Nika’s neck… but the immediate possibility of dying without ever seeing her son grow up drove her limbs into action with a will of their own.

Svet crooked her arm at an angle, dragging it around against Nika until it caught the flesh of her chin. Using all of the force she could muster, she held Nika’s face at bay with the tip of the blade. Her triceps shook with the effort of propping up an entire person.

Nika tugged hard at Svet’s hair, whipping her to the side, throwing her off balance. The blade slashed through rotting tissue as Svet stumbled to the ground, head pounding from the blood rush. Nika’s grip hadn’t lessened, causing searing pain under her scalp.

Overcome with dizziness, she scrambled towards the bed to prop herself up, just enough to fend Nika off while her nausea subsided. Feeling Nika pulling along behind her, her arm acting as her own leash, Svet flipped herself around and came face to face with her former lover for the first time.

Her sagging skin had grayed and was drooping away from her skull, glassy eyes without any pupils boring holes into her. Her teeth were bared and gnashed violently, while the entire surface of skin under her bottom lip had been carved away by Svet’s own knife, dangling loosely in front of her neck.

While she had clearly been dead for days, the darkened blood was still flowing out of her mouth and from her fresh wound. Svet was instantly reminded of molasses, pouring thickly from a jar, just as it dripped down onto her collarbone, spilling cold stickiness down her chest.

Hunching over and drawing dangerously near Svet’s face, she gripped a handful of blonde hair in return, watching the scalp peel away from her head as Nika bore closer.

The tip of her blackened tongue flicked over Svet’s nose, painting the Russian’s face with more putrid blood. She realized with abject terror that she was no longer holding onto her knife, and was being pressed bodily into the mattress. She pressed her lips together tightly, not letting any of the liquid get into her mouth, exhaling forcefully through her nose.

Nika’s teeth scratched and nipped at her skin, rotting chunks dragging along her face with every movement. A guttural scream bubbled up in Svet’s throat as images of Yevgeny’s face flashed in her mind.

Nika snaked a hand up to Svet’s throat, pressing her down further, bloody fingernails digging into the surface above her clavicle.

A wet gulping sound paused the action, and Svet felt a gush of cold, gooey liquid run down her arm. Nika froze, hand falling off of Svet’s throat as her entire body collapsed onto Svetlana’s.

Ian stood above the rotting dead body, muscled arms flexing as he gripped the handle of the claw hammer still embedded in her temple.

His panicked eyes began searching Svet from where he stood panting. “Are you hurt?!” She pushed Nika’s corpse off, letting it fall to the ground as she sputtered and inhaled a deep breath.

He rushed to help her stand, scanning the blood soaked brunette in front of him as she ripped the bed sheets off of the mattress. “I can’t tell if you’re hurt. Did she bite you?”

Svet scrubbed her face roughly, spitting copper-tinged saliva onto the floor. She continued rubbing along her neck and collarbone, using the sheets as towels. “No.”

Ian sighed heavily, falling into an upright position on the bed. He observed quietly as she continued removing as much blood as she could, missing several patches but focusing on the areas around her eyes, nose, and mouth.

She glanced at Ian’s sullen face, his green eyes tinged with sadness.

“I am fine.” She reached for the pillows resting against the headboard, and began to strip them of their outer covers.

“You didn’t come here for the ear plugs.” His eyes drifted down to the body of the woman he had spent months of his life cohabitating with, taking care of Yevgeny with. When he looked back up, Svet was staring unblinkingly at him, her movements stilled. 

“It is wrong, to leave loved one like this.”

“You could’ve died. She almost killed you. Svet!” He jumped to his feet, grabbing her by her shoulders. “What if I hadn’t walked in here? This wasn’t worth losing you over!”

She didn’t pull away from his hold. “People are dead, they are gone. These… they have no soul. They are not gone.”

Ian watched as heavy emotion flooded her eyes, staring up at him without pretense. “You would do the same for man you love.” She held eye contact until Ian’s hands softened around her shoulders. Turning away from his embrace, she added, “It had to be done.” Her usually sharp tone was softened by the near-imperceptible waver in her voice.

She reached deep between the mattress and the box spring, pulling out several stacks of cash and depositing them into the pillowcases. When she had removed all of the money from under the bed, she moved to the top right drawer of her dresser, pulling out various items, none of which were clothing.

“What can I do to help?” When she met his gaze again, all hint of vulnerability had left, replaced by the usual stoic seriousness.

“Ear plugs for baby are in top drawer of desk by kitchen. You go, wait for me in car.” She searched the top of the dresser absentmindedly while continuing, “Leave drugs in desk. Older shit-for-brains Milkoviches, they do not need our help being shit-for-brains.”

Ian nodded, taking one last glance at the woman sprawled face-first on the floor. He stopped himself short as his mind drifted to similar fears for Mickey, focusing on the task at hand, eager to get back into the car where Mickey sat waiting for him.


	8. Chapter Eight

Since Ian and Svet explained to Mickey what happened with Nika, the atmosphere in the car had gone from fraught to a level of awkward, simmering anger than Ian couldn’t even begin to name. Mickey had maintained a stoic silence. When Yev gargled, blue eyes flicked up to the mirror and softened slightly, but by the time they returned to the road, they had hardened again. 

“You okay?”

It’s a dumb question, but what the hell else was he supposed to ask? Mickey did explosive tantrums-- he didn’t do silent treatment. Except for when his ex-wife is nearly murdered by a zombie, apparently.

“Fuckin’ peachy.”

Ian sucked in his cheeks at Mickey’s tone and glanced over his shoulder at Svet. She lifted one shoulder, rolling her eyes at Ian’s puppy-dog expression. She didn’t know exactly why her ex was so furious, but she knew it was largely directed toward her, and she recognized that Carrot very clearly wanted her to fix it. She wondered briefly how either of them expected to survive a Zombie apocalypse if they cannot navigate the short one’s temper tantrums, but shoved the question aside. Survival is not something she can afford to be flippant with anymore.

Leaning forward slightly, she tapped Mickey’s shoulder with the edge of her cigarette packet.

“Smoke?”

“I got my own.”

Tongue firmly planted in her cheek, Svetlana raised an eyebrow at Ian, who’s own brows were doing some sort of weird ginger tango at her. 

Mickey gave them both the side-eye and inhaled heavily through his nose. “Will you two spit it the fuck out? What’s the fuckin’ problem?”

“Nothing! We just … um … you seem a little upset an-“

“And we want angry pout to go away.” Svetlana finished Ian’s stammering sentence bluntly, using the tone she usually reserved for telling their son to stop yanking her hair.

Mickey’s jaw clenched, the muscle standing out starkly against his pale skin and Ian had a suicidal urge to kiss it. He cocked his head to the side and sighed. On second thought, kissing Mickey’s perfect face had to be a better way to go than being munched on by some black-tongued corpse creature. He leaned over and pressed his lips to the delicately stubbled cheek before he could work out exactly how much trouble he is about to be in. 

Mickey startled as though Ian had tasered him and jerked back, smacking his head into the window.

“Shit!”

He stomped on the break and the battered old car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. 

“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Ian lifted his hands. Mickey let go of the wheel and turned unnaturally wide eyes on him, nostrils flaring. Svetlana dropped back, not wanting to get between whatever violence was about to occur between the two men, her palm naturally coming up to shield Yevgeny’s gaze. She gave a shocked squeak of amusement as Mickey’s lips collided with Ian’s in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. She was so fascinated by the action that she didn’t even think to look away; her hand lowering to rest on Yev’s chest. She only became aware that she was staring when the men broke apart and Mickey turned to her, chest heaving and levelled a finger directly at her face.

“I get that Nika was important to you, but you never, ever, put your life on the line for someone outside of this family again. Do you hear me?”

Svet blinked, too stunned to respond but Mickey was already switching his wild gaze back to Ian.

“You too, Gallagher. Never again. You two assholes left me and Yev behind to go deal with whatever the fuck was going on with Nika and you should have got the fuck out of there the minute you realized shit had gone wrong.”

“Mick it wasn’t that simple …”

“Yeah it was.” Mickey’s breathing was back under control as he gestured to Yevgeny, but his temper was hanging by a thread. Ian cautiously reached out and began to rub gentle circles against Mickey’s thigh, relaxing him inch by circled inch.

“I just … you gotta be smart now, right? You can’t just run into shit. We have to … shit … I don’t know…”

“Stick together?” Ian offered and Mickey nodded, his words finally failing him as he let the last of his fear and anger go in a heavy sigh and dropped his hand heavily onto Ian’s, squeezing tightly.

“Agreed. No more heroics.”

Svet nodded sagely and on impulse placed her free hand on top of Mickey’s. They sat for a moment, linked together, and then Mickey sniffed and withdrew his hand from the center, turning to grip the wheel tightly. He’d been too shaken up to concentrate on where he was actually going but now he looked around and grinned in wry amusement. 

“We headed back to Fi’s?” Ian asked, already craning his neck to try and spot any potential hazards. Mickey nodded and shifted the car into gear, easing the accelerator down softly. He knew it was stupid, but his brush with the cops had left him feeling cautious and moving the vehicle like he’s in Driving Miss Daisy or some shit.

 

*

 

The Gallagher house was quiet as they approached. Mickey told Svet to wait in the car while he and Ian made sure the coast was clear, and the two of them peered into the windows, unable to see much through the dust which had settled over the course of too many Midwest summers to count.

“Fuck this. Keep eyes on the Russian and the kid.”

Mickey stomped round to the back and banged heavily on the door. The answering shrieked cuss word told him that Fiona is still inside. Moments later, his phone vibrated in his pocket and Mickey closed his eyes against the frustration of his own thoughtlessness. 

***U @ the house?***

Mickey thumbed a quick reply and leaned back against the fence, waiting.

***No. It’s Santa.***

Fiona’s breath left her in an exhalation that was dangerously close to a sob as the message pops up. She kept her eyes averted from the bathroom as she hurried to the backdoor and unlocked it. She never thought the day would come when she would feel her eyes prickle with joy at the sight of a Milkovich on her doorstep but fuck if she wasn’t having to seriously fight the urge to pitch headfirst into Mickey’s arms.

“Hey!”

Her voice was too high and loud in the quiet around them and Mickey winced slightly, but manages a small smile and lifted his hand in an awkward wave.

“Hey. You guys all okay?”

“Yeah, it’s … I mean there’s Frank …”

“There’s always fuckin’ Frank. We got Svet and the kid. Can they come in?”

Fiona swallowed, eyes welling. For some reason it is that question, asked not out of politeness but out of necessity, which finally tipped her over the edge. She covered her mouth and tried to push it back, but the tears were sliding over her cheeks and a thin wail escaped her lips and Mickey was looking like he would rather take his chances with whatever the fuck was prowling the streets.

“Shit. Shit, I’m sorry.” Fiona brushed the back of her hand over her face. Mickey, to his credit, didn’t avert his gaze or give her some macho bullshit look that says it’s okay to cry because she’s a woman, he just rubbed a finger over the tip of his nose and nods.

“It’s been a shitty fuckin’ day. I brought beers from our place. I’ll get Ian and the others inside and we can crack ‘em open.” He turned to go as Fiona nodded and then changed his mind, stepping backwards and giving her a funny sort of one armed hug. He smelled of sweat, blood, and cigarettes, but Fiona didn’t hesitate to bury her face in his neck. Mickey’s fingers fluttered against her slender shoulder in a series of remarkably delicate pats.

“I’ll get Ian.” He repeated and disappeared around the side of the house. 

By the time Ian staggered into view, laden with what looked like the majority of the Milkovich family weapons closet, Fiona was back in control, skipping down the steps to help him with the bags.

“Jeez! We setting up for a war?” She joked and Ian smiled gently at her, though there was a gleam in his eye that gave Fiona pause.

“Seriously Ian? A war? I thought this was gonna blow over in a day or two.”

“No idea, but now if there is a war, we’ll be ready.” Ian dropped the bags in the kitchen with a grunt and stretched his back. He was exhausted, physically as well as mentally, but somehow the exhaustion just seemed to have sharpened his mind, clearing away some of the fog. Maybe a zombie attack was the cure for bipolar that doctors just couldn’t find. He grinned at the thought and closed his eyes, bunching his shoulders tighter and luxuriating in the feel of his spine decompressing.

“Reaching for the moon?” Fiona teased, shoving a couple of Mickey’s six-packs into the fridge.

“Landing amongst the stars.” Ian laughed. It was an easy exchange with none of the back-biting or fission that had colored so many of their recent exchanges. There was a thump from upstairs and the siblings looked up, identical frowns on their faces.

“What…?”

“Frank.” Fiona sighed, before adding, “And Sammi.”

Ian’s face scrunched in disbelieving disgust. “Ew! They’re not …”

“Oh God!” Fiona laughed, wrinkling her own nose. “No! At least, I don’t think so. Frank was feeling sick and his little limpet is up there putting cold wash cloths on his forehead or something.” 

Ian rolled his eyes and ignored the continued scuffle coming from above as Svet stepped in carrying Yev with Mickey and the rest of the bags in tow. 

“Looks like we’re moving in!” Ian said cheerfully and no one disagreed, though he saw Svet’s eyes flick uncertainly to Fiona. Mickey frowned up at the ceiling.

“What’s that noise?”

“Frank and Sammi.” Ian shrugged.

“Ew! Gross! Are they…?” Mickey looked at Ian in confusion as he and Fiona dissolved into fits of giggles, both waving him off apologetically. He had no idea when incest became everyone’s favorite joke, but fuck it. That’s the least of their problems today. 

“We gotta fortify this place a bit.” He said, looking around disapprovingly at the windows and eyeing the well used locks on the door. Ian nodded, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.

“Yeah, okay. Good idea.”

Svetlana peered into the living room and saw Liam and Debbie watching TV. Both of them looked burnt out, but Debbie in particular looked as though she was about to puke. 

“Yevgeny and I will sit with little ones.” She declared to everyone and no one, shouldering her shotgun and striding purposefully through the house to plonk down beside Debbie. “Hold baby, please.”

Debbie blinked as if dazed, but didn’t resist as Svet settled the warm weight of Yevgeny into her arms. As the little boy squirmed and twisted to see the bright colours of Liam’s cartoons on TV, some life flickered into Debbie’s face. She shifted him into a better position, hugging him carefully to her chest and watching Svetlana prime the gun.

“Do you know how to use that?”

“Of course. In Russia I took down bears, here I take down gross men-things with bad manners. Is a shame about the bears.” Her smile was infectious and Debbie smiled back despite the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“I can’t believe this is happening to me.” She whispered, and Svet shrugged in response.

“To you. To me. To everyone. We are in it together now, hmm?”

Debbie nodded and held Yevgeny tighter until he let out an angry shriek and pulled away, wanting his space.

“Sorry Yevvie. My bad.” Debbie cooed, kissing his silky hair and jiggling her knee slightly.

“Don’t worry. He is like his father. Screams over everything and then is fine.”

Svet set the gun down beside her and settled back into the sofa, leaving Yev in Debbie’s arms and gently stroking her hands over Debbie’s hair, gradually forming a loose braid. 

Ian had been watching the exchange with a full heart, and retreated back into the kitchen to nod at Mickey. He didn’t need to tell him that Svet will be alright, he already knew. What he needed to reassure his boyfriend of was that they’re doing the right thing in bringing them here and the best way of doing that, the best way of telling Mickey anything, is by showing him.

They worked side by side, breaking down a mostly collapsed wardrobe and using it to board the windows as best they could. With kids in the house, Mickey didn’t risk putting a gun on the floor at every door, but he hammered nails into the walls at adult height and created rudimentary brackets. Ian followed in his wake, checking the safety is on each piece until Mickey gave him a warning side eye, prompting Ian to busy himself with removing the corpses from the bathroom. 

He didn’t look too closely, just dragged the bloody sheets out back and into one of the adjoining alleys. He vaguely remembered Mickey talking him how to properly dispose of a body, one of his more disturbing attempts at pillow talk. There was something about the correct way to package a body … Ian can’t remember right now but figured that it doesn’t really matter in this case. 

When he got back to the house, Fiona was already scrubbing the bathroom floor with her tshirt pulled up over her nose and mouth and what smelled like an entire bottle of bleach sloshed onto the floor. Ian offered to help, but she waved him away without looking up. Ian quietly removed the bolt from the inside and refastened it to the outside of the door frame. He didn’t need to explain to anyone why he has chosen to do this, and when he caught Mickey’s eye, his boyfriend gave him a firm nod of approval.

Within a couple of hours, the house was as fortified as possible and all the adults (besides Frank and Sammi, who had not made an appearance to help) were breathing easier. Ian asked Mickey about going to the Alibi and, confident that their handiwork will hold, Mickey nodded. “You think we should put Frank out before we go?”

“Maybe.” Ian looked up and shook his head, “I don’t know where he’d go.”

“Like you give a shit!” Mickey grinned, sobering when the sorry look didn’t leave Ian’s face.

“Seriously, man? Jesus. Okay, how about we take him with us? Frank loves the Alibi. Spent more time there than here.”

Ian nodded and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah I guess.”

“C’mon, I’ll get him, you open the door and we’ll have him out before he fuckin’ knows it.” Mickey cajoled, already climbing the stairs and rolling his neck in anticipation. He knew that he had to let his brothers go and do their thing, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t a tiny wistful part of him that wished he could have been in on whatever was going to go down. 

He hoped Carl was alright. Carl was a good kid, but he was rolling with gangs that the Milkovich’s had never had dealings with, and thus by default, there had to be some sort of reckoning. 

Rolling Frank out of the Gallagher house wasn’t much of a substitute for that, but it was better than nothing. Although Mickey wouldn’t have said it to Ian, there was no fucking way he was leaving Yev in the house with Frank. He’d let Terry hold him once, actually put the little guy into the old bastard’s arms, expecting some sort of fuckin’ pat on the head for it. In hindsight, it had been one of the most anxious moments of Mickey’s life; who ever knew what shitty thing Terry was gonna do next? Mickey was a quick learner, and what he had learned from that experience with Terry was that, grandparent or not, he was never leaving his kid with someone he didn’t trust ever again.

“Yo, Frank! Time to go, man!” he yelled, thumping on the door.

“Uh, can you go away please? Daddy isn’t feeling well and we need peace and quiet.”

Mickey snorted at the imperial tone of Sammi’s voice. He wasn’t sure who the hell she thought she was talking to, but she was about to fuckin’ find out.

“Tough shit. It’s time to go.” Mickey kicked the door open, not bothering with another warning. He found Frank sprawled on the bed, looking like he was on the verge of death. Again.

“Ugh. Jesus, Frank.”

Suddenly a fight with the Gallagher patriarch didn’t seem so great. Beating on a sick old man was pushing close to being like beating on a woman. It made Mickey uneasy, and he gnawed on his lower lip as he considered his options.

“Excuse me, can you…” Sammi stood up from her father’s side and wobbled round the bed to try and push Mickey out, but staggered and sat down heavily before she could reach him, her skin erupting in a cold sweat.

“We are not well …”

“I can see that. Bad meth?”

Mickey frowned and moved closer, nudging one of Frank’s feet with his knee. Bloodshot eyes cracked open and Frank’s face rolled towards Mickey. It’s weird, but Mickey could almost swear the skin of Frank’s face moved slower than the rest of him, dragging over the gnarled bones with a sluggish reluctance that made Mickey’s stomach flop over.

“Milkovich kid. Mmm. You smell good. C’mere” Frank rasped and Mickey recoiled further. 

“No thanks, Frank. Shit. Get some air in here, smells like a damn brewery.” He grunted, crossing to the window to buy some time and avoided looking at the sorry excuse of a human on the bed. 

There was a flicker of movement and a guttural growl from behind him. Mickey had just enough time to turn around before Frank was on him, mouth stretched wide and tongue, speckled with black patches, thrust out as far as it will go, desperately reaching for Mickey’s throat.

“HOLY FUCK!” Mickey spun on his heel and shoved Frank hard in the chest. There was a splintering of glass and, in the space of time it took for Mickey to blink, Frank was gone, replaced by a hole in the now broken window.

“DADDY!!!” Sammi screeched, and propelled herself out of the room. Mickey could hear her stumbling down the stairs and ordering someone to open the door, but his mind was still processing the fact that he had just killed Ian’s father. 

He didn’t mean to, but that didn’t change it. He’d finally done what rampant alcoholism, a bum liver, and general bad luck could not do: He had killed Frank Gallagher. A slightly hysterical laugh began to bubble up in his throat, but then there were more footsteps, this time echoing up. Suddenly, Ian’s arms were around him.

“Mick! Are you okay? What happened?”

Mickey looked up at his boyfriend, eyes blown with shock. “Ian … I …”

A low moan from the yard stilled the words in his throat, and both men stepped toward the window, movements syncing as one.

Frank was lying on his front, one leg bent at an angle that made stars dance behind Mickey’s eyes, but he was clearly and almost impossibly still alive. Mickey’s breath exited in a heavy rush of air, and he closed his eyes, leaning back against Ian. He could hear Sammi screeching, but it all seemed very far away as Ian’s hands settled on his shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.

“Shit. I thought I killed him. I mean, I always figured one of us would at some point but …”

He trailed off and shivered violently, eyes squeezed shut. Ian’s lips grazed the shell of his ear and the ghost of a smile lingered in his voice as he said, “Don’t worry baby, next time.”

Mickey’s eyes snapped open in surprise. He laughed a little chuckle that turned into a full on belly laugh as the shock and tiredness caught up with him. Ian glanced down at Frank, who had managed to roll himself over and was staring up at Ian and Mickey with his middle finger raised.

Ian returned the gesture, turning his back on his temporarily incapacitated father and pulling Mickey more securely against his chest, cradling the back of his head in one large palm.

“This fuckin’ day, man.” Mickey mumbled into Ian’s shirt, his arms locking tightly around his slender waist.

“Tell me about it.” Ian kissed the top of Mickey’s head and smoothed his hair back. The temptation to lie down on the bed together and curl into their usual position, Ian spooning Mickey’s back, was almost overwhelming. Mickey seemed to be thinking the same thing. Ian could see the longing in his face as he contemplated the greasy sheets. They lingered a moment longer and then, with a low groan that sounded eerily like the creatures outside, Mickey pulled himself away.

“I guess we best go take care of Frank.”

“As in Christopher Walken style or as in, like, Florence Nightingale style?” Ian smirked. Mickey shrugged and peered through the broken glass again. Sammi was now squatting on the patchy grass beside Frank and trying to prop him up with one hand, whilst pushing his gnashing jaw away with the other. 

“Fuck sake. C’mon.”

 

*

 

Sammi had abandoned her efforts to get Frank up by the time Mickey, Ian, and Fiona stepped out into the yard and was sprawled on the ground a safe distance away.

“YOU! You tried to murder my father!” She shrieked as soon as she saw Mickey, though she didn’t try to get up. He gave her a withering look, and focused his attention on Frank.

“How you doin’ Frank?”

The older man looked up at Mickey and grimaced. He looked less dazed than he did upstairs and when he spoke, his voice was clearer too.

“Thirsty. Crippled. Abused in my own…”

“Yeah, okay, so basically usual fare, huh?” Mickey squinted up at the blue expanse of sky and licked his lower lip, a gesture of contempt that for some reason maked Ian’s balls clench. He fought away a grin and squatted down to be at Frank’s level.

“Your leg looks pretty fucked.”

“Again. And for nothing. No pay out comes from suing a low breed thug, trust me I’ve tried.”  
Frank looked miserably at his twisted limb and shook his head.

“How is he not writhing in pain?” Fiona asked quietly. Ian frowned; he hadn’t really noticed but, yeah, why the fuck wasn’t Frank screaming his damn head off? 

“Can you feel anything?”

“Oh, I can feel it but, thanks to my amazing brew …”

“Your what?”

Frank’s proud smile faltered, irritated by Ian’s interruption. “My brew. Frank’s Miracle Beer. That’s what I’ll call it. Thanks to that, the pain is but a shadow on the wall of my mind.”

“You hit your head as well as bust your damn leg. What the shit are you talking about?”  
Mickey asked, scowling. Pale blue eyes narrowed and darkened with a sudden rage.

“I hit everything! You threw me out of a fucking window, you little prick!”

Frank lunged forward, attempting to grab the cuff of Mickey’s pants but slumped back, panting against what for anyone else would be unbearable pain in his broken leg.

“You fuckin’ attacked me!”

“Just a nibble. I hear you like it.” Frank snarked, and it took everything Mickey had not to break his other leg.

“Are you … are you a zombie?” Ian felt stupid asking, a feeling that intensified as Frank tipped his head back and laughed.

“A zombie? You were always a moron…” Frank broke off as an unnatural pressure landed on his fingers. He glanced down at the large black boot covering his knuckles, and grinned as Mickey ground it down a little more.

“I know you can’t feel shit right now, fuckhead. But whatever shit you’re on is gonna wear off and when it does, I’ll be here. So watch your fuckin’ mouth.”

“If the “zombies” don’t get you!”

“How about we leave you out here and let them get you instead, huh?” 

Frank tried to grin, but it failed on his bristled lips and he looked away. He knew a real threat when he heard one.

“What the shit is going on Frank?” Fiona demanded, her patience with everything slipping further by the minute.

“Bring me inside and I’ll tell you.”

“Make them bring me too, Daddy.” Sammi piped up, startling her father who had managed to almost entirely forget her existence. 

“Uh …”

“DADDY!”

“Sure! Fine! Bring her too. I don’t know how hungry I’m gonna get so it makes sense in a way.” Frank shrugged and lifted his arms as if expecting Mickey to pick him up like a child.

“Right! I can make you a snack!” Sammi smiled brightly. Frank opened his mouth to correct her, then thought better of it.

“Sure you can, honey.” He looked pointedly at Mickey when no arms reached down to him. “Uh, a little help? I can’t fucking walk, can I?”

“Mick, don’t! He might bite.” Ian interjected, tugging Mickey away.

“Christ! Am I supposed to crawl?”

“No I just have to think of something.” Ian looked around for something they could make a stretcher out of, but there was nothing that caught his eye. He looked at Mickey and then Fiona as panic began to build in his chest. Just then, the idea struck and he let out a startled laugh. “Hang on …”

Ian ran back into the house and reappeared with two t-shirts, each rolled into a thick rope. “We can’t trust you not to bite, and we can’t leave you out here, so we’re gonna gag you,” he informed Frank with no small degree of dark delight.

“Ha! Good thinking. The other one for her?” Mickey asked, nodding curtly at Sammi, who pursed her lips and scooted back a little.

“Yeah, just to be sure.” Ian nodded, and then smiled at Fiona. “You mind if I do it?”

“Go ahead, I mean, we’ve all wanted to but fuck it, he’s all yours.” She folded her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow at her father. 

Frank glared up at them, “You ungrateful wretches! You …”

“Can it, Frank.” Mickey snapped, taking the second shirt from Ian and advancing on Sammi.

“If you touch me, I’ll call the police and you’ll go down for some serious hard time Nicky, or whatever your name is!”

Sammi tried to shuffle back further, but her arms were already trembling from the exertion; her peroxide blonde hair sticking to her forehead with putrid sweat. It was like a flu, but worse. Mickey almost felt sorry for her. Almost. 

“Stick your tongue out.”

“Why?”

“Cause if it ain’t black I won’t gag you.”

Sammi considered it for a moment, and then thrust her tongue out with a loud “AHHH!”. Black rosettes were blooming across the pale pink expanse, and Mickey clucked his tongue sympathetically.

“Sorry.”

“Hey! No! Don’t …” Sammi got cut off as the shirt was stuffed roughly in her mouth and tied in a tight knot around the back of her head. Her hands flew toward it, and Mickey slapped her wrist sharply.

“Ay! Touch it, I’m gonna have your sister knock you out.”

One look at Fiona told Sammi she wouldn’t take much convincing. She let her hands drop into her lap, too sick and too tired to bother fighting it. 

They bundled the sick Gallaghers into the house and straight into the bathroom, shutting the door on them and bolting it.

“You think they’ll be okay in there together?” Fiona asked uncertainty, and both Mickey and Ian shrugged.

“They’ll be out of the way. That’s about as good as we can get it for now.”

“You think Frank actually knows what is going on?”

Ian shook his head. “I doubt it, but maybe see what you can get out of him.”

“Yeah right, cause he’s always just so helpful!”

“Use a beer. He’s sold us down the river for a can before.”

Fiona nodded in agreement and sighed. “What do we do now?”

Ian glanced at Mickey, but they both knew the answer already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you've all seen this several times in the last few days, but... come on, I HAD to. How could I not? 
> 
>   
> I love Noel's enthusiasm for zombies. <3


	9. Chapter Nine

“Hey, Kev, turn that up, man.”

Lip was slouched on one of the stools along the wooden counter of the Alibi, hoping a little hair of the dog would take the edge off the splitting headache and overall queasiness that he’d been dealing with since Kev woke him from a near coma state this morning. He may not be able to drink away his credit card debt, but he could sure as fuck drink away thoughts of his ill-advised affair with Helene.

While he sipped his draft beer, he listened to the ramblings of Kermit and Tommy who were seated next to him and talking some seriously crazy shit about hordes of drunks roaming the streets. The conversation started to penetrate the fog he’d been spending more and more time living in lately, and he felt the stirrings of a memory, something important. Something Frank related.

Just as he was about to ask them if they’d seen his shitty excuse for a parent recently, the little tv above the bar flashed to a shot of Canaryville, not far from where he was seated right now. This got the neurons in his head flaring, and as Kev reached up for the volume control, Lip’s mind re-engaged.

The blonde Barbie smiled into the camera. “Reports are coming in of a number of serious flu cases centered around Chicago’s Southside. At the moment, all reported cases appear to be contained within the boundaries shown on the screen. A state of emergency has not been called at this time. If the outbreak moves beyond the Southside and become a serious concern, an emergency alert will be issued. Symptoms to watch for include a blackening tongue, sunken eyes, faint pulse…”

The four men exchanged looks, studying each other for signs of the flu. Kev pressed his index and middle finger into his wrist, and Lip watched his mouth move as he counted the beats of his pulse.

“After the 2009 outbreak of H1N1 bird flu killed more than 200,000 people,” the newscaster continued, “the Center for Disease Control has been monitoring infectious flu cases. Early reports are labeling this outbreak H1Z1. Stay tuned for more coverage on the presidential primaries and the arrival of the new koala bear at the Chicago Zoo.”

For a group of men who had each spent their share of time gabbing at a bar, none of them was able to formulate a quick response. Kev, much to everyone’s surprise, snapped out of it first.

“V and the girls. I gotta see if they’re okay,” his voice carried through the bar as he whipped his cell phone out. “Come on, V. Pick up! Please. Have you seen any birds lately? Stay away from them if you do! People are dying, V. Pick up the fucking phone, woman! I’m gonna come over there if you don’t answer me.”

Lip slid off his stool making his way toward the Alibi’s landline. He had left his cell phone somewhere last night—a vague memory of hearing a splash while taking a leak in some co-ed’s bathroom sent a disheartening fission of memory through his hippocampus and into his neocortex where the memory was going to rear its head and alert him to the fact he’d flushed his new iPhone down the john.

After three rings, Liam picked up the house phone. Lip knew it was Liam because he could hear breathing but that was it. “Hey, buddy, it’s Lip. How’s it going? You okay?”

“Frank is locked in the bathroom.”

“That’s good, buddy. Don’t go in there after he’s done. Am I right?” Lip replied trying to laugh at his joke.

“Ian locked him in.”

“Okay. Um, is Fi there? Can I talk to her?” Silence for a couple of minutes, not even any breathing, and Lip started to feel the cold hand of fear squeeze the back of his neck.

“Hello?” Fiona’s distracted and breathless voice carried down the line to Lip’s ear. “Lip? Where the fuck are you? Jesus Christ, I’ve been texting you all goddamn morning. Fuck!”

“Lost my phone. What’s going on? I saw some reports on the tv at the Alibi.”

“Reports? What reports? Oh my god!” She was becoming hysterical. He could hear her taking some deep breaths and imagined her hand in her hair pushing it away from her face and adding to its already chaotic state.

“First, tell me what’s going on there. Is everyone okay? Why’s Frank locked in the bathroom? Did Ian lose his shit again?”

“What? No! He’s fine. I mean I thought he was losing his shit when he woke up and started swinging the old bat around. But—” she stopped abruptly, and Lip could hear her choking out a sob. “He and Mickey just left to get supplies. Food and shit from the Kash n Grab, I think.”

“Fi, slow down. Is anyone hurt? Do they have the flu?”

“The flu?”

“Yeah, there’s an outbreak of what they think might be the bird or swine flu.”

“Um, maybe. Maybe Frank and Sammi. They’re locked in the downstairs bathroom. Ian pushed the dryer in front of the door so they can’t get out,” her voice now sounded distracted and a little distant like she had moved on from their conversation to something more important.

“Fiona, pay attention to me. I need to know what the fuck is going on,” he shouted into the phone and got Kev’s full attention instead.

“What’s happening, Lip? Is V there? The girls?” Kev was getting into Lips’s space now trying to pull the phone from his hand. Lip swatted at him and turned slightly away. He could hear loud voices coming through the phone line now.

“Fi, for fuck sakes, talk to me!” Lip was losing his cool while trying to fit all the pieces together with too little information. Why were Ian and his pitbull going for supplies at the Kash n Grab? Why would they lock Frank and his pitbull in the bathroom? He spends one night out of touch and the goddamn world falls apart.

“V and the girls just got here, Lip. We had to make sure she was alone before we let her in. She was pretty pissed to be left on the front step that long,” she clarified, coming back on the line. 

“They are safe at the house,” Lip explained to Kev who ran his hands over his cropped hair and released the breath he’d been holding. “Wait. Why did you have to leave her on the step?” Lip asked.

“I promised Mickey that I wouldn’t open the door for anyone,” she began then trailed off again as loud voices nearly drowned out her voice.

“Mickey?” Lip yelled into the phone.

“Yeah, since they boarded up everything, we’re basically prisoners in here,” she continued as the shouting receded. “Now V and the girls are safe too. We’re putting the boards back up.”

“Could you slow down and start explaining why the hell Mickey Milkovich has boarded up our fucking house?” he asked looking at the phone receiver in disbelief.

“So the zombie things can’t get in!” She was getting agitated again. “Don’t you take that tone with me, Lip.”

He almost laughed out loud at the ludicrousness of this situation. “Zombie things?” he asked in an exaggeratedly calm tone of voice.

“Yes! Pay attention, Lip.”

“I’m coming home now. Let me in when I get there, okay?”

“No. You need to help Ian get supplies and make sure Carl gets picked up. You need to figure out what the hell is going on. At the moment we’re safe,” she explained. “V says she saw some of the creepy fuckers through her kitchen window while ignoring Kev’s phone call. They’re still out there, so make yourself useful and kill the fucking things.”

 

***

 

Colin jogged ahead of his brothers, retrieving the van and pulling it up to the side doors of the high school just as the group pushed through the exit hauling all their ill-gotten loot. Sully was in the lead, his long strides got him quickly to the sliding door of the van where he tossed in the duffel bag of artillery the Gallagher runt was peddling. Jamie was a few paces behind him with the little gun runner slung over his shoulder, arms dangling loosely and smacking against Jamie’s broad back as he hustled along the sidewalk.

Eventually, Iggy sauntered out the door, letting it fall shut behind him as he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his leather jacket. The Mountain Dew bottle in his hand went sailing across the manicured lawn and landed beside a “Keep Off Grass” sign shoved into the dirt. Colin could see some joker had used a Sharpie to cross out the word “Off” and replace it with “Smoking”. That made him remember that he was dangerously close to becoming sober.

He honked at his brother to hurry the hell up. Iggy gave him the finger and slowed to a saunter. From the back of the van, Colin could hear Sully and Jamie grunting up a storm as they arranged their goods into a satisfactory position. He glanced over his shoulder at the little Gallagher who was slumped forward while Jamie connected the seatbelt around him and pulled a piece of black cloth down around his head. “Sorry, little dude. Can’t be too careful.”

“He put up a fight?” Colin asked incredulously. Would those fucking Gallaghers never fucking learn?

“Nah, we weren’t taking any chances though.”

“Never trust a Gallagher, huh?”

“Bunch ‘o little bitches in my experience,” Jamie added.

Iggy yanked open the passenger’s side door drawing Colin’s attention, then he threw himself into the seat with a grunt. “Let’s roll, Col.”

When the van turned left instead of right out of the parking lot, Iggy turned to Colin with a frown, “Where the hell you goin’ bro? Mick said to meet at Ian’s.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere sober, Ig. Need more than fucking guns to take on these body bags. Know what I mean?”

Iggy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some pill bottles. “Got uppers, downers, Cialis, couple roofies.” Shaking one of the bottles, he frowned. “Some blue shit. Might be for heartburn.”

“Weed, man. I need the sweet soothing embrace of weed.” They nodded at each other. “Gonna stop at Tony’s. He’s got some a that Tom Cruise purple.”

“Hear that shit’s fucking potent,” Iggy nodded impressed. “Tom Cruise vs the zombies.”

“Epic,” they said in unison.

 

*** 

 

Mickey eyed the eerily empty streets. Nothing freaked him out more than the idea of his city sleeping. As they pulled up in front of the Kash n Grab, he couldn’t see any lights on inside and no activity through the parts of the window not covered in ads. Ian’s voice carried from the back seat, explaining that if the front door was locked, he knew all the codes Linda would use for the back entrance. Mickey put the car in park deciding to leave it out front because the crowded alleyway would impede a quick getaway if they needed it.

He turned to Svet who was sitting beside him in the front seat of the Buick, her perpetual scowl directed at him. Scrunching his face up in distaste, he barked, “You wait here. With the car running. Do NOT open the fucking door for anything.”

Laying the Beretta on the dashboard, so she could slide into the driver’s seat, Svet flicked her eyes up and down Mickey’s chest. “Chain only as strong as weakest link.”

“Why you always gotta be the fucking Riddler?” he shot back, feeling certain that she was taking a jab at him somehow. Why the fuck he worried about her was a mystery. She’d probably eaten some flesh in her time. “Text me if you see anything. Lay on the fucking horn if it’s an emergency. Let’s go, Gallagher.”

After confirming that the front door was locked and the store empty, they hustled around to the back of the building. Ian pushed the buzzer next to the keypad on the security system, and they waited to see if Linda would respond. Mickey paced the small cement parking spot, his eyes darted around and his cigarette perched between his lips. 

“No answer,” Ian said pressing buttons on the keypad. The first combination resulted in a red flashing light. “I only got three tries before the alarm goes off.” Mickey could hear the strain in Ian’s voice and knew that this was a sure-fire way to set Ian off on a tangent that they couldn’t afford right now.

“Then you better fucking get it on two, Ian.” He watched Ian turn toward him then reach out to snag the smoke from between his lips. After taking a long drag, he slipped it back between Mickey’s lips. “Feel better?”

Nodding, Ian turned back to the keypad, tapped in a 4-digit code, then watched the light flash green. “We’re in, Mick.” The pride in Ian’s voice went straight to the corner of his heart where all things Ian dwelled. He’d heard so much self-doubt come out of Ian’s mouth since his return to the southside that Mickey was heartened by the impact this small measure of success seemed to have on his boyfriend.

As Ian twisted the handle and lifted the rolling door up enough for the two of them to slip under, Mickey commented, “Never doubted you for second, man.” Ian grinned, handing Mickey an empty apple box.

They started filling their boxes with supplies. Mickey emptied a case of Snickers bars into his box. “Linda is gonna shit a fucking brick when she sees we’ve been here.”

“I was thinking of leaving a note, letting her know it was us,” Ian explained bending over to line his box with cans of Chef Boyardee. Mickey paused to admire the view and felt a wave of nostalgia hit him like a can of pasta to the same place in his heart he’d been pining over moments before. Fucking Gallagher was his weak spot. The guy weaseled his way into Mickey’s life and left a permanent mark. One that Mickey was finding out he wasn’t gonna be able to shake no matter what happened between them.

Perching his box of mostly junk food on top of a pile of watermelons, he started tossing oranges and apples into the box to balance shit out. Ian had moved over to the cooler, so Mickey told him to grab some chip dip to go with his Pringles, but when Mickey glanced over, he saw the redhead frozen in place, the cooler door held open. Ian’s shoulders were stiff and tensed up nearly to his ears. Mickey had seen this too many times over the last months, and the sight sent a warning response down his own spine. But before he could ask what the fuck was happening, Ian let the door slam shut, and he walked swiftly around the corner toward the metal cooler door.

Mickey continued to drop oranges into the box while looking out the front window at Svet waiting in the Buick. The street still appeared empty, and Ian hadn’t returned from the cooler. “Fuck sake,” he grumbled, lifting his now full apple box off the watermelons and heading toward the counter at the back door. He set the box down and gave the cooler door handle a good tug, unsealing the rubber around the door frame.

The interior of the cooler was dim, and it took a second for Mickey to make out Ian standing in the middle of the open space. Crying slightly.

“What the fuck, Ian?” he asked coming forward, the door closing with a whoosh behind him. Eyes darting to the corners of the room, Mickey couldn’t see any danger or really any reason for Ian to be upset. “Why you crying, man?”

Ian continued to stare at him, while tears filled his eyes and he sniffed loudly. The sight made tears come to Mickey’s eyes too, and that made him frown. “Seriously? Talk to me, for fuck sake.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For fucking what? Did I miss something?”

“For everything.”

“Everything?” he repeated but he felt a sudden lead weight in his gut like he knew exactly what “everything” Ian was referring to. “Never mind. We don’t got time for this, Ian.”

“We might only have this time. I’m not dying without telling you how sorry I am, Mickey.”

“Who the hell is dying? You ain’t dying and I’m sure as shit not dying. Fuck that.” Mickey was getting agitated himself now. Talking about dying and thinking about all the shit with Ian the last few months was too fucking much.

“Do you forgive me?” Ian asked wiping the tears from his eyes with the sides of his fingers. “I understand if you don’t. If you can’t.”

Mickey hesitated. He wanted to tell Ian that he was being ridiculous, that there was nothing to forgive, that he knew the bullshit was all cause of his condition. But he choked on the words. Not because he didn’t forgive him but because he was fucking afraid that it would all happen again if Ian didn’t get on some medication or something. That he would spend the rest of his life worried about him doing fucked up shit.

Now here there were in the middle of a fucking zombie apocalypse and having the shitty fucking conversation they’d been avoiding. If he pushed Ian too far right now, would Mickey be having to deal with a pissed off redhead as well as a horde of undead assholes? Jesus Christ, could he not get a fucking minute to goddamn breathe ever?

“Fuck, Ian. I don’t need to forgive you because I don’t fucking blame you for anything, but if you don’t get on some sort of medication or get some fucking help, then I ain’t gonna forgive you cause you’re gonna keep doing shit that hurts me,” he half shouted.

“I don’t mean to hurt you. Not you. Never you. I just -- nothing, never mind.”

“Spit it the fuck out. We’ve come this far.”

Ian released a long breath. “I don’t feel like me on the meds.”

“You feel like you when you’re fucking around behind my back?”

Every one of the tears in Ian’s eyes rolled down his cheeks. He shook his head, breathing heavily.

“Look, maybe I never say shit, but I’m fucking committed to you no matter what, Ian. We’ve had each other’s backs for years and that ain’t gonna change just cause we got some shit to deal with. We’re gonna figure all this out if you don’t fucking fight me every step of the goddamn way,” he added some bite to that last part, pushed a little too far now to keep his hurt and doubt and frustration in check. “Maybe if you take the fucking meds for more than a day, they’ll fucking work.”

Mickey let out a giant sigh at that and forced his arms to remain at his sides. He wanted to cross them over his chest in a protective stance but instead chose to remain open. Then he waited for Ian. Fuck knows how the guy was gonna react. Wild card.

With another swipe at his now red eyes, Ian nodded his agreement then gestured around the room. “This is one of my favorite spots in the world.”

“You’ve barely left the southside, man. Ain’t saying much.” But Mickey grinned. He loved this cooler, too.

“How many times did you let me fuck you here?” Ian asked, moving into Mickey’s personal space.

“Every time.” Mickey arched his brow as Ian reached a hand between them.

“You were always so good at taking it without much prep and nothing more than spit,” Ian whispered, bringing Mickey’s hand between them and pressing it against his erection. “Think you could still take it like that?”

Mickey was a mess of reactions to this turn of events. First and foremost though was the thought that, of course, he could fucking take it. When Ian saw that reaction in Mickey’s face, his hand yanked hard on the button of Mickey’s jeans, then moved to the zipper. Fleeting thoughts of zombies attacking or Svet catching them entered his mind, but were met with the feel of Ian’s hand starting to jerk him off. Fuck it, he thought. They’d had less time before and been in almost as much danger as they were now.

He pulled away so he could wrap his hands around the metal stand containing overflow from the cooler display. The sight of glass bottles of Nestle Iced Tea and colorful containers of Gatorade met his eyes and once again, he was kicked in the heart with memories, while Ian’s wet fingers spread him open attempting to make room for the that goddamn cock Mickey had chased like a bitch for years.

The burn caused his shoulders to hunch and a low groan to escape. Ian paused but Mickey pushed back gritting his teeth. Inch by inch, Ian filled him until they were fully connected and they moved slowly together, meeting in the middle. The ice tea bottles were clinking precariously as the metal stand wobbled in Mickey’s hands. He grinned and hissed out a breath as Ian picked up speed and wrapped his right hand around Mickey’s erection. His left hand lifted to cover Mickey’s linking their fingers around the metal shelving, and Mickey felt the prick of tears again. Fucking Gallagher.

 

 

“I’ll take the medication, Mickey. I promise,” Ian panted in his ear. “I don’t wanna hurt you anymore.”

“Fuck, Ian. You gotta—” he tried to explain but the words were being suffocated by the pulsing in his ass. Ian was angling just right and twisting his hand with a vengeance. The morning’s events, and the events of the past couple of weeks, were being pounded out of him. “You gotta do it for you,” he eventually ground out.

“I’ll do it,” Ian began, resting his forehead on Mickey’s jacket covered shoulder, “for us.”

Mickey watched himself come on the second shelf of the metal stand, the semen hitting the front of a couple of cartons of OJ. “We should grab some juice too,” he said.

“Well, not those two containers,” Ian added. They started laughing, and Mickey focused on the feel of Ian’s chest vibrating behind him.

They untangled and zipped up, still smiling at each other. Ian gave him a hard kiss to the mouth and nodded seriously. “I promise.”

“Us, man.” And that spot in Mickey’s heart got a little bigger.

The metal cooler door suddenly shook with the impact of whatever was on the other side. They looked at each other and Mickey grabbed the gun from his pocket, reassured by the familiar weight of it in his hand. The door remained silent, so they turned toward the glass cooler doors watching silently for whatever had tried to crash into their safe spot.

The wait wasn’t long. Two creepers ambled into view knocking the tins of peanuts on the end aisle to the tiled floor, drawing the fleeting attention of the smaller creature before he stumbled into the display of watermelons sending several to the floor. For a moment, he slipped around on the flesh of the fruit, arms flailing and his mouth gaping open to release a high-pitched whine that penetrated the cooler doors.

Mickey was frozen beside Ian as the second creature lurched down the aisle in front of the cooler doors. Her once long hair, matted and missing in clumps, covered part of her face blocking their view of her eyes, but she was turned toward the same cooler door they were watching through. A dirty hand plastered itself against the glass, fingernails scraped at the pane that was blessedly separating them from the thing. They watched the fleshy digits make their way toward the long door handle. Mickey shifted the gun until it was behind his back, and then he cocked it, calling on years of practiced ease.

But before she could manage to find the handle, yet another crashing noise distracted her and whatever she smelled captured her full attention because her nostrils flared, and she moved with surprising grace and speed for a zombie toward the back wall of the store and a display of wine bottles. Both creatures were now in a frenzy, pawing at the display and sending bottles of wine to the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with them?” Mickey asked looking at Ian in disbelief. He honestly didn’t think this shit could get more fucked up. He’d been wrong.

“Looks like Frank after a weekend bender,” Ian commented.

Mickey returned his eyes to the weird fucking scene just as one after another their heads exploded against the back wall sending brain and bone and blood across the bags of Wonder bread.

“You two can come out now.” A voice carried through the door and was accompanied by a couple taps on the cold metal.

Creaking open the door, they were met with the menacing dark eyes of Ian’s former employer.  
“Linda?” Ian asked meekly, holding up his hands in surrender.

“Stealing from me, boys?” she shifted the double barrels of the 12-gauge shotgun in their direction.

“Um, we were gonna pay you back,” Ian offered and Mickey watched him try out a charming Gallagher smile on her. She lifted the shotgun higher. Ian stepped back pressing into Mickey’s chest.

“A little trip down memory lane?” she questioned, pointing the shotgun at the cooler door. They shook their heads in denial, but she rolled her eyes. “If there’s one thing I know, you,” she returned the gun to Ian’s direction, “can’t keep it in your pants.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Ian offered sounding contrite over his past mistakes for the second time today.

“That’s bullshit, Linda, and you know it. Your husband was a fucking perv,” Mickey’s voice overrode Ian’s and challenged Linda to disagree. They eyed each other until Linda nodded slightly.

“You boys take those -- those things out into the alley and I’ll overlook the boxes of supplies you were in the process of taking,” she concluded, lowering the rifle to her side. “I’m taking the kids to my parent’s until whatever this is blows over, and I don’t want them rotting in my shop while I’m gone.”

“Deal,” Mickey agreed, and they turned toward the decapitated creatures bleeding out on the store floor. “We’ll toss ‘em in the dumpster.”

As they made their way to the back of the Kash n Grab, Ian’s phone began buzzing in his pocket. He dropped the cold, wet wrists of the creature he’d been pulling and wiped both hands back and forth across the thighs of his jeans.

He frowned at his phone. “Uh… hello?” Ian’s face quickly transformed into relieved shock. “You’re at the Alibi? Fi’s been trying to get ahold of you, Lip. Thought you were in class or something.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, already over whatever drama that Ivy Tower douchebag had to offer. He slipped his cell out of his pocket and shot off a quick “come to back in 5” in response to Svet’s “still alive?” Then he checked in with his brother.

**Mickey: Got Carl and guns?**

**Iggy: Roger that**

**Mickey: Where you at?**

**Iggy: Mickey D’s**

**Mickey: Wtf?**

**Iggy: Munchies**

**Mickey: Fuck sake**

He cringed internally at Ian’s frantic promise, “Stay where you are. Mickey and I will be right there!”

**Mickey: Alibi 15 min**

**Mickey: Bring me some nuggets**


	10. Chapter Ten

Ian held the phone at a distance, staring at it uncertainly. Who was calling him from the Alibi?

“Uh… hello?”

“Ian, what the fuck is going on?” His brother’s slurred words were laced with more panic than anger. “Kev’s got everyone checking themselves for bird flu, Kermit thinks he doesn’t have a pulse…”

Since when did Lip get back into town? “You’re at the Alibi? Fi’s been trying to get ahold of you, Lip. Thought you were in class or something.”

“Yeah, just talked to her. She said that you and Mickey locked them in the house so that the _‘zombies’_ wouldn’t get in?”

Ian glanced down at the molten corpse strewn about at his feet.

“She said to help you get supplies, and pick up Carl? I’m fucking lost here, Ian. Why are Frank and his interloper spawn trapped in the bathroom? This have anything to do with that H1Z1 virus that’s on the news?”

Ian sighed in frustration. “Stay where you are. Mickey and I will be right there!”

He turned to his boyfriend who was thumbing at his phone, eyebrows askance. 

“That was Lip. He’s at the Alibi.”

“Already told Ig to meet us there. Can we take care of this shit first?” He pocketed his phone and reached for the slimy limbs of the dead, contorted body crumpled in front of him.

They dragged the bodies to the dumpster behind the Kash n Grab and helped each other lift them up and over, bending their knees and holding the bodies as far from their faces as their arms could stretch. By the time the last corpse was hoisted into the bin, Svetlana had pulled the car into the alley and was peering at the tracks of blood and waste trailing from the shop to the outer walls of the dumpster. Her eyes narrowed critically at their soiled pant legs.

She tilted her head towards the back seat of the car, encouraging them to get a move on. Mickey followed Ian into the back, his hand discreetly wrapping around the redhead’s.

“Alibi. Could use a goddamn drink.”

 

***

 

Jamie Milkovich strolled confidently into the Alibi with a still unconscious Carl slung over his shoulder. He called out to the bartender to prepare a round of whiskey for the group of brothers.

“Whoa, hey, you can’t bring that shit in here. Don’t get my bar involved with your kidnapping, or torture, or whatever this is.”

“Ain’t a problem, man. Just a Gallagher. Kid’s fine, he’ll be around in ten.”

Kevin sighed with an eye roll, reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys, tossing them into Jamie’s open hand. “There’s a bed upstairs… Jesus.”

All eyes followed the eldest Milkovich as he carried the boy up the stairs, bag still covering his head. They shrugged apathetically and returned to their drinks.

“And don’t hit his head on anything! Watch the railing! I’m serious!” Kev yelled, running a frustrated hand over his head.

Sully and Colin headed towards the pool table, giggling at their own lame jokes and flat punchlines. Iggy strode up to the bar and set several bags of McDonald’s drive-thru items on the counter.

“So what are all those keys for, Lurch?” Iggy asked with a mouthful of ground chicken nugget. “I got a set like that. Ever since I made that copy for the Walgreen’s on 92nd and Commercial, I’ve been gettin’ way more free time in.”

Kev stared back at him with disdain. Iggy continued, “Uppers, downers? Poppers? Walk in, walk out? They don’t teach you much in bartender school, do they?”

“Are you telling me that you have a copy to the key to _Walgreen’s_ and you walk in and take prescription medication? How would you even pull that shit off? How have you not been caught?”

Tommy snorted around his drink, “These Milkovich kids are smart in all the wrong ways. It’s scary, to be honest. You never see it coming.”

Iggy beamed brightly as he chewed his nuggets with his mouth open.

Jamie trotted heavily down the stairs a few moments later, tossing the aforementioned keys at Kev as he bunched up the upper thigh part of his pants and took a seat on the barstool to Iggy’s right.

“Mickey here yet? Said he wanted to meet, but I’m gonna eat his nuggets if he’s not.” Tommy leaned towards the bag closest to him, peeking into the bag with curiosity and appreciation.

Jamie scowled at the younger blond. “Did you eat all his nuggets already? Fucking asshole.” He dumped the remaining chunks of meat on to the bar top and ate them quickly, a giggling Iggy proud of his quick work.

Kermit leaned in conspiratorially towards the brothers, “Do you guys know anything about this bird flu?”

“Bird flu?” Jamie spat in disgust. “Sick of hearing about that shit… swine flu, bird flu, bullshit fake news. Waste of my fucking time.”

“No, it’s real.” Tommy confirmed. “And it’s right here in the south side… only the south side, according to that good lookin’ blonde… doesn’t that seem strange to you guys?”

Kev’s face lit up in shock, “Was that Carl Gallagher? Did you just kidnap Carl??”

Right on cue, the door to the Men’s restroom flew open, and a heavy-lidded Lip Gallagher stumbled out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jamie shot a knowing look at the horrified man behind the bar, and drew his hand in a horizontal line under his chin, signifying for Kev to shut it or else.

Undaunted, Iggy glanced over his shoulder at Tommy, his concerned question still lingering. “Ah, you mean the zombies. Fuckin’ worthless, if you ask me. Can’t even run, or nothin’. You ever seen 28 Days Later? Now that shit was scary. I’da shit my pants if one of those motherfuckers came sprinting at me.”

Kev stared Jamie down hard as Lip flopped himself into the seat between Tommy and Iggy.

“How can any Milkovich know about zombies an’ I don’t even know about zombies? S’like… the universe is off-kilter. Now I know the Apocalypse is real.” Lip slurred his last few words and lit up the cigarette held aloft in his unsteady fingers.

“Another fucking Gallagher” Iggy grinned at the curly haired mess next to him. “You’re the second Gallagher I seen come outta the john today… you guys crawl up from outta the shitter or something?” He laughed heartily at his own joke, missing the ice cold death glare coming from Jamie.

Jamie rubbed at his own face in frustration. “More whiskey. Leave the bottle.”

 

***

 

Carl felt the warm breath fanning around his face, first. Squeezing his closed eyes shut further, he focused on the sounds filtering in through his fog-addled mind.

He was surrounded by loud murmurs coming from below him, but couldn’t make out any of the words or voices. The heavy bassline of some unrecognizable song floated through the noise.

He lifted a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, and was met with a harsh fabric blocking the connection. He shot up in a panic, yanking the hood from his skull.

“The fuck, yo?”

He looked down at his wrists. No marks, no restraints.

Last he remembered, Jamie knocked his ass out like the Milkovich punk he was. Dirty trick.

He patted his sides, checking for his piece. Missing.

He scanned the room, looking for any hints as to his whereabouts. He wasn’t at the Milkovich house; too clean.

It looked like he was in someone’s apartment, but there were no personal items to be found.

The daylight streaming through the window was a relief; as soon as he bailed on this place, he could make a faster getaway than he could in the dark. He’d have to come back with his squad later to retrieve what was stolen from him.

He peered through the window, checking for anyone staking him out.

With no visible witnesses, he wrenched open the window and popped his head out. He looked around at the uninhabited alleyway, only two stories up. Perfect.

The loud marching of heavy footsteps making their way up the staircase set Carl at alert.

_Fuck!_ He’d have to move fast.

Eyeing the dumpster directly below him, he slung one leg over the window sill and tilted his torso outside of the frame.

Keys jingled inside the door knob.

Carl swung his other foot over the sill and pushed himself off the ledge. 

He landed on the closed lid of the dumpster, which immediately caved in half and folded in on itself. His legs crumpled into a heap, and his face collided with the hard plastic.

He let his body go limp, and silently vowed to seek revenge on this shitty excuse for refuse covering, even if it meant shooting it up himself. A lot of good this lid was going to do the city of Chicago in this condition.

His need to pull himself off the dumpster and flee down the alley was met with a sharp pain in his ribcage, leaving him panting in short breaths.

He attempted to tilt his head up towards the window he just jumped out of, clinging to desperate hope that his approacher hadn’t heard the commotion.

He could only lift his head enough to peer over the bent lid, bringing him eye to eye with an angry bum standing about 50 ft away, glaring at him in disgust.

_Not like I was going to ask this sour bitch for help, anyway._ Carl steeled himself and pushed up with both hands. His arms shook with effort and the pain in his ribs magnified.

How did he get sucked into this? All he wanted was to do his crew right and make some fast cash.

The bum walked closer, looking at him with a burning hatred.

“The fuck you looking at, white boy?” Carl spat.

The bum opened his mouth in response, black liquid pouring down his chin. The growling noise that accompanied it came not from the bum, but from behind Carl, in surround sound.

He scurried away from the outer ledge, cuddling into the concave center of the broken dumpster cover. He tucked his limbs under his stomach the best he could, fighting the screaming pain now emanating from several parts of his body. His ankle burned, and a stabbing sensation shot down from his skull to the middle of his back.

He must be getting old. Used to be a time when he could jump off of the roof of his house and land just fine, brushing himself off and walking away like a pro.

Now he was regretting not taking his chances with the random Milkovich on the staircase.

The bum staggered towards Carl with the putrid stench of Frank after a two-week bender and a month of no showering. A collection of small patters echoed against the metal walls of the dumpster. He tilted his head minutely to the side, and found himself surrounded by The Walking Dead.

Their rotting hands slapped at the metal, reaching for Carl, slipping and grasping at the ledge. He slid back as far as the curved in plastic would allow, reaching behind himself to grab onto the back and pull himself away from the crowd.

The bum slammed his body weight into the side of the bin. His yellow, vacant eyes bore into Carl’s as his bloody snarl bore several missing teeth.

Carl’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears. He whipped his head about, looking for a gap in the crowd. Every time he turned, it seemed another one of them popped up.

A hand with sagging gray skin darted out and caught his sprained ankle, digging bloody fingernails into his black pants. He pulled himself away frantically, kicking at her face with his limited movement.

Another one caught his shoe as it flailed, digging cracked teeth into the rubber sole. Carl was immobilized, and was being pulled forward inch by inch. His knuckles turned white from effort, clinging to the back hinges with all of the strength he could muster.

Tears of panic welled up in his eyes.

He took a deep breath and hurtled forward, smashing a curled fist into her bulbous nose. Her head snapped back from the force of the blow, and she shuddered with her entire body, oozing from the side of her skull. She slumped to the ground, as did the zombie next to her.

Carl’s focus sharpened just in time to hear, “Don’t move, kid!” Shots fired in single file from above his head, laying out one zombie at a time.

He stared wide-eyed at the zombie still gnawing on the rubber sole of his shoe, frozen in place as its head exploded around it.

The alley door opened with a bang, followed by Iggy running full steam ahead into the crowd. Screaming with excitement, he waved a half empty bottle of tequila in the air, brandishing the weapon with pride.

He swung hard and clocked a straggler upside the skull, shattering the glass and stabbing the remains of the bottle between the eyes of the straggler next to it.

Colin and Sully emerged behind him, guns raised and aimed at their targets. Within seconds, the growling had come to a halt, and all of the creatures surrounding Carl were laid out on the ground.

“You got some high quality shit, here, kid” Jamie called down the apartment window above him. “You really brought all of this to a high school? It could’a been jacked!”

Carl rolled his eyes and kept his gaze at the younger Milkovich whooping animatedly in front of him, not risking feeling the sting of his injuries to look up at the elder one. “I DID get jacked. By you assholes!”

Jamie cocked the gun and put the safety on, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as he spoke. “A little ‘Thank you’ goes a long way, you know.”

“Yeah, lil’ G. You should be thanking us.” Iggy trotted happily up to the caved bin cover, eyes glazed and skin flushed pinker than usual. “Think you can handle this one next time, lil’ G?… Gallagher. Gangsta Gallagher! Double G!” He giggled at himself.

“I got most’a the fuckin’ zombies, Ig. Should have moved your ass faster.” Jamie cackled gleefully at the crestfallen expression on his younger brother’s doped up face.

Iggy slowly blinked his dry eyes. “Give me my gun back, Jamie…” he murmured to himself.

“Not when you’re this baked. Say the alphabet backwards and I’ll give it back to you.”

Iggy looked like he was about to attempt this when Colin and Sully walked up beside him, stepping carefully over the littered remains that Carl couldn’t bring himself to look at just yet.

“Hey kid, come inside and get shitfaced with us. We got the good shit from Tony. You won’t even remember this in five minutes.” Colin smiled and extended his hand.

They looked completely unfazed by the events that just unfolded. Carl’s heartbeat fluttered at a hummingbird’s pace, feeling the shock settling into his bones.

Sully extended his hand up as well, wobbling unsteadily. “Come on, lil’ dude. Let’s get you inside. Got some high quality Tom Cruise Purple with your name on it.”

 

***

 

Ian rushed through the Alibi door with Mickey in tow, Svetlana following at a leisurely pace.

His eyes were drawn first to the seats lined up in front of the bar, where Lip’s name was practically etched in ownership.

He recognized the clan of Milkovich brothers huddled drunkenly around—

”Carl!”

“Sup, Ian?” grinned the teen, extending an arm into the air in greeting. Ian ran up and scooped his little brother into a bear hug. “How’s it feel to be out of juvie?”

Carl’s slack facial muscles and red-glazed eyes bore the telltale signs of a Milkovich-style post-jail party. “Feel like a king.” His smile stayed put, though his demeanor slipped into something more somber. “Never came to visit me…”

Before Ian could respond, Jamie cut in. “Hey Ron Howard—question” he turned to give Ian his full attention. “How did your brother here NOT RECOGNIZE the old Rub ‘n Tug headquarters? That’s a young boy’s rite of passage. You’re slipping on your family duties, kid.”

Mickey scowled at Ian’s side. “Not everyone wants a loose hand job from a frigid, Ruskie ice cube.” He lifted his pilfered drink in Svet’s direction, who had planted herself in a booth across from Lip.

“Lip! Hey Lip!” Ian called out excitedly. The oldest Gallagher brother shrugged in deference to the redhead, and stared down at his bottle morosely.

Kev leaned over the countertop and raised his voice in attempted reassurance, “Don’t worry about him, Ian. He’s upset because Harvey Keitel over here wouldn’t let him call the cops.”

“Call the cops for what? What’d we miss?”

The group fell silent as Carl looked up sheepishly. Colin passed Ian his expertly rolled blunt, bypassing Mickey’s reach. “You’re gonna want to hit this first.”

 

***

 

Lip looked on sadly at Ian and his half-pint bodyguard as they dissolved into giggles less than ten minutes later, falling into the pack of wild hyenas seamlessly in their raucous celebration.

“And that is why shiv will not work. You get longer blade, aim directly into skull. No time for talk, only stabbing.”

“Yeah, got it. Brain tissue is full of protein; don’t stare dreamily into the zombie’s eyes. Anything else I should know about today’s escapades?” His eyes started to water. He coughed uncomfortably and straightened his back, sore from his slouched position.

“You are feeling like less of man, because Shithead Patrol save Tiny Boy and not you?” They looked over to see Ian affectionately undoing Carl’s braids one by one, running a hand through each time and fluffing up Carl’s curly locks.

Lip remained fixed in a trance, contemplating the question in the back of his mind while his eyes closed slowly with the weight of exhaustion.

“When did I lose the ability to protect my family?” He let the question linger in the air, keeping his eyes pressed shut. 

Svet eyed him curiously, letting the moment unfold interrupted. 

“I’ve my entire life making sure they were safe. Making sure they were okay. No matter what it took.” He opened his eyes and struggled to focus on the conversation at hand, the room spinning minutely.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the feeling of guilt acting as the last barrier to a flood of panic and fear.

Lip looked down at the table, rotating his drink incrementally between his fingers. “They’re all I have. I mean, fuck school. What the fuck am I even-- Carl almost died! I didn’t even know he was here.” Lip swallowed thickly, letting his eyes pool with tears without shame. “An’ Ian… Ian’s acting like it’s his 7th birthday... and we’re back at that shitty carnival, and not like the world is falling apart. He’d be the first to care about something like this! He’d be-- he’d be in full combat gear ready to go G.I. Joe out there. And now he’s just, he’s just like…” 

He held the name on his tongue, forcing thoughts of her flighty impetuousness, her emotional frailty and psychological imbalance out of his mind. His liquor-addled brain was inundated with memories of how Ian and Monica had gone missing for hours that day at the carnival, and how he and Fiona had searched and searched for them, and when they finally found them eating cotton candy in the back of some carnies van, she had only laughed like it was a great adventure for everyone. But Lip immediately felt guilty at this thought because Ian had spent the morning saving his family from zombies while he, Lip, had pissed it away drowning his sorrows in some hair of the dog. So who's more like Monica in the end?

“...He’s just different. Look at him.” He gestured towards the bar. “This isn’t him. He can’t take care of himself out there, not like this.”

Svet stared at him cooly, her eyes scanning him in quiet assessment. 

“Thank fuck for Mickey, huh? I know they can’t go two seconds without being attached at the fucking hip.” He stared into his glass, letting the words roll off of his tongue as if he alone could hear them, “He’d probably be dead without Mickey.”

She refrained from tilting her head to watch as Mickey shoved Iggy off of his barstool, his pink face furrowed up in disgust. Iggy howled with laughter from the floor, pointing at Mickey’s scowling expression and bursting into hysterics.

“And we should be home right now, with Fiona and Debs and Liam. We should be doing something to protect ourselves. But she said she’s fine, you know? ‘Help Ian get supplies’. ‘Make sure Carl gets picked up.’ She wants me to figure out what’s going on, but…

Lip stared longingly at the group, all feelings of composure draining out of him. “…But I’m fucking scared.” He met Svet’s unreadable expression. “What I saw out there, those things… there’s no explanation for that. Viruses don’t cause that. This is end-of-times apocalypse shit.” 

He surrendered to the alcohol in his veins, letting the tears spill over and rubbing both hands through his dirty blonde hair helplessly. “What the fuck do we do?”

She stifled a sneer, knowing that there was a fine line between laying out the hard truth and berating a man on his last string of sanity. “You retrieve balls and handle your shit. If you breakdown, so does Carrot, so does piece-of-shit husband, and then they all chase tails until dead. Nyet. Ukrainian pussies are good for killing enemy, yes. Smart, no. There is only you. We all have weight to pull.”

Lip shook his head and laughed ruefully. “Yeah, that’s the thing. I can’t keep my own shit sorted out. There’s this professor… she, uh—“

“I do not care about your love life.” She snatched Lip’s bottle from under him, downing the liquor in one take without flinching. She waved over Kev, who brought over a pitcher of water and placed it delicately in front of Lip.

“Hey, man, don’t worry about those things out there. We’re safe, if we stay inside. They can’t come inside if we don’t invite them in first.”

“You’re thinking of vampires, Kev.” Lip deadpanned, giving his classic unimpressed stare.

“Wait… are these the kind we stab in the chest with a wooden stake, or…” He scrunched up his face in confusion, ticking off an invisible list on his fingers, his lips moving in silent conversation with himself.

“We’re all going to fucking die here, aren’t we?” Lip asked rhetorically. Svet propped an eyebrow and pursed her lips impatiently. “Why aren’t they scared? What is it they know that I don’t know? Or do they just not care? Is this what our plan is? We’re just going to sit here and fuck around while every poor person in Chicago dies?” He sighed, letting the weight of being the Gallagher patriarch sink him into the booth seat. “I’m fucking useless.”

Mickey clambered unceremoniously into the booth, sitting down next to Lip with a frustrated grunt. “Pig-faced motherfucker. Next time Ig eats all my nuggets, I’ma feed him his chainsaw for dessert.”

He turned at an angle to look Lip dead on, using a softer voice than Lip had ever personally experienced from his former classmate. “Alright Phillip, pay attention. We gotta get ahead of all this before we end up battling all of south Chicago on our own. You’re the only one here who can figure this shit out. Where do we start?”

Lip, in a rare moment of speechlessness, felt important. Needed. And not just by any Milkovich, scrambling to get themselves out of yet another bind; but by the one person he’d hoped would come to him in regards to Ian’s health and safety.

And the idea of coming to the table empty handed wasn’t going to be a fucking option for him.

He fought the urge to smile, failing instantly as the unfamiliar sensation of camaraderie with Mickey warmed his chest, letting the alcohol lift him out of his sorrows as intended.

He held the back of his hand to the pitcher, letting the cool condensation run down his skin, bringing his fuzzy mind back into focus.

Something from earlier bubbled in the back of his mind, far too frazzled to put the pieces together just yet. “I don’t… know. Yet. But… I think I have an idea.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

The mood in the Alibi was mellow despite the empty baggie sitting on the bar top, the empty chocolate bar wrappers sitting beside it, and the empty beer glasses sitting everywhere. 

“Another round, Kev!” Iggy set his empty glass on the bar beside the clear baggie that once held some fine weed. “No one _needs_ to be sober today.”

Beside him, Tommy tipped his glass in agreement. “No one ever needs to be sober.”

“This isn’t a soup kitchen, man. You guys got any money?” Kev grabbed the trash can and started cleaning off the bar top. Iggy only frowned as he watched him.

“Hey, Kev, what about that batch of Bitch’s Brew Frank left behind?” Tommy shifted in his seat at the bar so he could make eye contact with Kev. “I think these boys could handle it.”

“I’m not sure anyone can handle that shit.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me,” Iggy declared clapping Carl on the back. “Whatdaya think Double G? You up for trying some of your Daddy’s brew?”

While they discussed the likelihood of surviving Frank’s homebrew, Mickey and Ian sat a booth with Lip discussing the likelihood of surviving a zombie apocalypse. 

“If we use standard disease models to estimate the spread and build up a full scale simulation of a zombie outbreak in the United States…” Lip paused to take the final swig from his beer and the two men across from him sat forward slightly, squinting their bloodshot eyes at him, “...then we’re basically doomed.”

“The fuck?” Mickey sat back in the booth with a huff. No way was he listening to this asshole tell him that they were gonna die cause of some fucked up virus. “That’s bullshit. I ain’t afraid a no zombies.” In fact, he was scared shitless of them, but he needed his bravado in spades. It was like a suit of fuckin’ armour. Along with his barbed tongue, he was a goddamn warrior. He was also high as a fuckin’ kite, which sorta took the edge off some of his fear. Squinting again, he returned his attention to the blowhard in front of him, who was still writing a fuckin’ essay.

“Well, given the dynamics of this ‘disease’,” Lip inserted some finger quotes for emphasis, “as well as the chemical reactions and allowing for complex social dynamics--” he continued but Ian cut him off by briefly placing his hand on top of Lip’s. 

“I’m having a hard time wrapping my braaaaaiiiins around what you’re saying.”

While Ian giggled, Lip joined Mickey in shaking his head at his goofy brother, but Mickey agreed. “Just get to the bottom line before I blow my own brains out.” He gave Ian a look when he opened his mouth to add “braaaaiiins” under his breath.

“Statistically speaking, the cities are gonna fall first, so we need to get the fuck out of town,” Lip shrugged. “We need to head toward the mountains where infection is all but eliminated.”

“What fucking mountains, man?” Mickey asked. “The Smoky Mountains are half a fucking day away.”

Before Lip could reply, a crash erupted from the Ladies room followed by a series of piercing Russian swears. “Svet?” Ian said looking around the bar. He leapt from the booth with Mickey behind him. “She’s in there.”

“I’m guessing she ain’t alone.”

A few feet from the bathroom, they stopped abruptly when the Ladies room door swung open and a body flew across the polished wood of the floor skidding to a halt at their feet. Its head was lolling to the side and the forehead was now more or less the back of its head. They raised their eyes from the creature to the woman standing in the bathroom doorway, the white porcelain toilet lid dangling from her fingers. Svet looked anything but happy at the moment. 

“Clean up on aisle one,” Tommy said to Kev as he returned from the backroom carrying a heavy crate.

Kev set the crate on the edge of the bar so he could get a closer look at the situation. “Do we need to burn it or something?”

“Nah, chuck it in the dumpster.”

“We’re getting good at this, Mick,” Ian shook his head as he bent down for the lifeless legs. “Grab the arms.”

“Wait,” said Kev bending over the creature for a closer look. “What’s that smell?”

“Um, zombie?” Mickey suggested.

“Dead zombie,” Ian corrected.

“Also toilet water,” Svet added.

Kev was shaking his head and sniffing. “No, I know this smell. It reminds me of…”

Behind him, the Milkoviches were making a ruckus as Iggy cracked open the crate and started passing out the tall glass bottles of homebrew. Kev turned toward them with a frown, then back to the corpse on the floor. “Wait, that’s what this, this _thing_ smells like. Frank’s brew.”

“Ig, hold up, man,” Mickey shouted at his brother. “So what are we saying? Somehow this meatbag got ahold of some of Frank’s brew?”

Iggy had the top off the bottle in his hand, and he lifted it to his nose pulling away quickly when the harshness hit his nostrils. “Fuck.”

“That his latest batch?” Mickey asked Kev then met Ian’s eyes. They were remembering Frank talk about the potency of his latest concoction.

“Yeah, he dropped it off yesterday. Said it was what he had left after making deliveries all day,” Kev replied. “I tossed it in the backroom cause I’m not interested in picking my regulars up off the floor all day.”

“Let’s get rid of Frank’s shit as well as the body. I ain’t taking any fuckin’ chances,” Mickey waved a hand at his brother to put the beer away. Forlornly, Iggy replaced the cap and dropped the bottle back into the crate, closing the lid. “Grab the crate, Ig. We’ll throw it in the dumpster too. Don’t fuckin’ trust you assholes.”

For the second time that day, Mickey and Ian found themselves disposing of a nearly headless corpse. This time though they had a line of defensemen accompanying them. Carl’s bag of semi-automatics was spread open on the table at a corner booth, and Colin, Jamie, Carl and Sully each grabbed one. 

Colin slowly opened the backdoor, muzzle pointing out. He glanced quickly from side to side and Jamie joined him just outside the door. “All clear.”

Carl and Sully stepped through the doorway and the four of them made a safe path for Mickey and Ian with their burden and Iggy with his. Just as they started to swing the lifeless creature toward the dumpster opening, one of the undead dudes they shot earlier sat up with a terrifying moan. Iggy let out a high pitched scream and dropped the crate of homebrew, narrowly missing his toe. As the the twelve bottles of rancid beer crashed to the cement alleyway, Carl released a full round of 9 mm slugs into the head of the zombie, who flew backwards into the side of a recycling bin before hitting the pavement. 

“Holy shit,” he breathed looking at the Beretta in hand. “That was fucking awesome.”

“Yeah, nice shot, man.” Carl puffed his chest a little at Mickey’s words. “I guess there’s no point in putting the body in the dumpster, when you guys left the back alley littered with them.” Mickey believed in doing a job right. You don’t just make a fuckin’ mess and walk away. You clean your shit up, but he was tired and little overwhelmed. “At least put the beer in the dumpster. We don’t want fuckin’ zombies coming after it.”

Iggy bent down to retrieve the crate, but as he made to stand up, the bottom dropped out of the wooden box and 12 bottles of Bitch’s Brew hit the ground splashing up over Iggy’s shoes and pant legs. “Oh, shit.”

“Oh shit? Oh fuckin’ shit?” Mickey brought his thumb and finger up to the bridge of his nose then dropped them when he caught sight of how dirty his fingers were. “Well, let’s hope that no zombies happen to be passing by who love the stench of Frank Gallagher.”

He could feel Ian’s hands on his chest turning him toward the bar door. When he remembered how dirty his own hands were, he flinched away from Ian’s in disgust. With a shudder, he caught his boyfriend’s eye. “Need to wash our fuckin’ hands, man.”

His high was wearing off. Fuck.

 

***

 

Ian watched Mickey smack his hand against the bar top to get the room’s attention. Now that the Tom Cruise purple was starting to wear off, the motley crew might be able to concentrate on what Lip had to say. Flicking his hand in Lip’s direction, Mickey sat down heavily on a bar stool, looking like he was done. Ian sat down on the stool beside him and pressed his knee into Mickey’s thigh to show his support. 

“You good, man?” Mickey asked while scanning Ian’s face for evidence to the contrary.

“I guess. Are you?”

“No. It’s been a long fuckin’ five hours, Ian.”

“Feels like five days.” Ian tried to imagine what their life was gonna look like five days from now. Was it possible that life would return to normal, that he and Mickey would go back to talking about Ian’s medication and what they could do for income? Or would they still be looking over their shoulders for zombies?

On cue, Lip started talking, explaining that the rate of spread suggested that it was just the beginning and that they needed to figure out how to get everyone out of town. He left out his research methodology cause that wasn’t gonna go over with this crowd who were only interested in what the fuck this all means. “We need a long term plan in case this really is our new reality. I suggest we load up as many vehicles as we can find and get out of town quickly, before the whole city starts to panic.”

This was met with silence as each person absorbed this information and whether they were ready to commit to this being an apocalypse rather than simply a bad day on the South Side. Gathering loved ones and all their shit was gonna take time and planning. A lot of planning cause Lip was talking to a room full of city dwellers who spent no time communing with nature. The only environment they knew how to survive in was made of concrete.

Ian, however, could read a compass and a map thanks to Cadets, and he’d covered some unfamiliar terrain during orienteering. His head started spinning with all the training he’d had that would come in handy if they actually made it to the mountains. Would he remember his trigonometry and how to use compass bearings? Mentally reviewing the 32 points of the compass rose, his knee started bouncing in time with his brain. There were sixteen quarter-winds on the compass that bisect the angles between the points on the--

Mickey’s hand came down on Ian’s knee like a vise.

“Stay with me, Gallagher,” he said digging his fingers into the muscle above his knee. “I can’t do this without you, okay?”

Ian looked at the hand on his knee, tracing the tattoos on Mickey’s knuckles with his eyes and wondered when they had become vital to his survival and sanity. After he’d gotten out of the psych ward and returned home without Mickey, he’d tried to imagine living without him, and his mind kept returning to those tattoos. He seen them form a fist, clean a gun, feed Yev, give him the finger, touch his body. Prying them off his knee now, he brought them swiftly to his lips and pressed a kiss to the letter “C” on his middle knuckle then dropped the hand before Mickey could chew him out for PDA. But instead, his boyfriend only nodded at him. 

Deciding it was time to support Lip, Ian stood up taking a step toward his brother when the back door flew open and a sight that Ian still had not gotten used to seeing met his eyes.

Zombies, and lots of them, were squeezing through the narrow opening. There had to be at least six of them that he could see. For one brief moment, nobody moved even though the entire room was aware that they were about to be ambushed by the walking dead.

Ian’s gaze swept the room past the bar where Kev was fiddling with a towel and Mickey, Tommy, Kermit and Carl were seated, to Colin, Jamie, Iggy and Sully sitting at two of the small round tables near the front door, and landing on Svet sitting alone at the back booth with the duffel bag of guns. 

Lip was a couple of paces in front of Ian, and his face pulled back into a mask of fear when he looked over Ian’s shoulder at the hideous sight. He was getting his first full encounter with how quickly the undead can crash a fucking party.

“BOYS!”

The harsh whip of Svet’s voice broke through their trance, so she could start tossing guns and weapons around the room. Ian was closest to the intruders and didn’t want to take his eyes off of them as they made their way around the pool table. He felt his baseball bat being pushed into the palm of his hand and knew that Mickey was beside him. 

They had enough guns on them to start a small war, but they couldn’t start randomly shooting in the bar without risking a bullet hitting one of them. There was more than one way to kill a zombie. Ian lifted his bat and started swinging.

He could hear grunting and groaning coming from undead and alive bodies as the two forces collided in the middle of the Alibi. The heavy end of his bat made contact with the jaw of someone who looked suspiciously like his old neighbor, but before he could really process that information, the guy’s dislocated jaw made contact with his arm. But Lip brought a chair down on the creature’s back and it went sprawling toward the floor where Carl shot it in the head. Three times. The brothers shared a look then turned back toward the chaos. 

Mickey was pulling on the dirty, matted hair of a creature who had a hold of Iggy’s leg as he tried to crab-walk backwards, but he wasn’t able to get away because the four other zombies were heading straight for him, ignoring Collin, Sully and Jamie who were in their path. 

Iggy let out a shout of horror as they fell to their knees surrounding him. Their faces seemed almost serene and relaxed like they had finally satisfied their deepest basic needs. Mickey still had the one creature by the hair, and as he pulled, it fell backwards on top of him. With a grunt, he landed on his ass, and Kev leaped over the bar with his own titanium baseball bat, which made quick work of the freak covering Mickey.

“Fucking gross, man,” he gasped shuddering as Kev kicked the now dead undead onto the floor. “Gimme a hand up. Fucker knocked the wind outta me.” He gave it a kick in the ribs for good measure.

The four remaining creatures were each paired up with a Milkovich. Sully, Jamie and Colin were brandishing pool cues in varying degrees of combat, while Svet had snuck up behind one, pressed her Glock to the base of its skull and pulled the trigger. Blood splattering everything within a 3 foot circumference including Tommy and Kermit who were sitting like statues on their favorite bar stools.

“My bar!” Kev cried, closing his eyes in surrender. “Always my fucking bar.”

While Carl, Lip and Mickey threw themselves into the fight, Ian ran toward the back door intending to shut and lock it this time, but he skidded to a halt at the door when he caught sight of what was waiting outside. 

The back alley was swarming with walkers in varying stages of decay, but they were all absorbed in the task of flipping over the dumpster. 

“Holy shit,” Ian whispered to himself, while reaching out for the door handle. As his fingers met the cool metal, the dumpster crashed to its side with an ear shattering clang that drew the attention of everyone in the bar. 

Mickey pressed himself into Ian’s back so he could see over his shoulder. “Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck?”

“They are desperate for Frank’s homebrew. Look at them, Mick.”

They were crawling over each other, growling and gouging each other to get at the broken bottles of beer. Mickey and Ian were enthralled by the sight, unable to move or react. 

“Maybe you should shut the door, Ian, before they realize there’s no beer.”

“Right, yeah.”

And in the time between Ian’s two words, the horde realized that whatever they were smelling was not satisfying their craving. One by one they turned toward the Alibi’s backdoor and the two men caught in their trance.

“Motherfucker! Now, Ian!”

Scrambling backward, Ian collided with Mickey who tried to step out of the way but his back met with Kev’s chest. The door handle slipped out of Ian’s grip as stiff fingers grasped the edge of the door. Ian stared at the dirty, broken fingernails in awe. Then snapped out of it.

With both hands on the door handle, he yanked as hard as he could, bringing the metal door flush with the casing and trapping those dirty fingers in between, but he had the door closed and the lock engaged. Mickey was beside him sliding the deadbolt into place.

“The fuckin’ front door!”


	12. Chapter Twelve

“The fuckin’ front door!” Mickey yelled over his shoulder. Everyone stilled in their places, glancing around the room at each other, waiting for some action to trigger itself into motion. 

Ian stared down at the fingers jammed between the door and the frame. His eyes flashed wildly, moving back and forth at the continued wiggling of the nearly severed digits.

His military instinct kicked in, and he bolted towards the front door with long, purposeful strides. 

“Hold it shut!” he shouted at Jamie, Colin, and Sully, shoving a commanding finger in each of their faces as he flew by them. They were closer to the front entrance than anyone in the room, but Ian beat them to it, and was maintaining the door in place as they stood shoulder to shoulder looking for a way to secure it.

Ian leaned into it heavily, the tension already creeping into his neck. He fought the urge to roll his shoulders.

As he locked the door shut, his mind honed in on the sounds of slick hands pattering against the other side. The horde had clamored towards the bar front like a real life _Thriller_ video en masse, drawn to the noise from their battle moments before. 

He snapped his head around the bar, scanning the room. No one spoke as Ian silently took inventory of any item with the potential to block the horde’s entry.  
“Board up the windows. Now!”

“With what?” Jamie asked, eyebrow cocked.

Mickey walked briskly across the room. “Hey, don’t worry about the windows. We need to--”

The banging of hands and limbs against the glass grew louder, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

Ian flicked his hands towards the booth with the duffel bag full of artillery. “Svet, Jamie! Cover the windows!”

Jamie furrowed his brows in frustration, “With _what_?”

“THE FUCKING GUNS!” Ian spat impatiently. “Aim the guns at the windows. We need COVER!”

“Oh… _cover_. Right.” He scratched the back of his head in deference. Svet was already rifling through the bag, and pulled out an AK-4.

“No!” Ian shouted. “Use the suppressors!” He lunged forward and dug through the bag, having already scoured Carl’s loot earlier with glee, aided by a once helpful high that was now only a memory.

“The silencers?” Iggy asked. “For the zombies? I don’t think that’s gonna matter!”

Mickey joined Ian, digging to the bottom of the bag. “He’s right. We’ve gotta take ‘em out without drawing more in. Save the AKs for later.”

“We’re surrounded!” Iggy bellowed. He ran his hands through his dirty blonde hair leaving it in even more disarray than usual.

Ian pulled two suppressors out and tossed one each at Svetlana and Jamie. “Colin, you and Sully grab those tables and lay them sideways on the booth tops-- keep the tabletops against the windows!” His eyes flitted toward his brothers, standing breathlessly next to the pool table. 

He turned to the counter, where Tommy and Kermit sat stone silent. “Get upstairs! Now!” They looked at each other, and hurried off of the stools towards the staircase. Ian called after them, “Wait, you’re unarmed…” Before he could reach for the duffel bag, Tommy responded, “I’ve got my 44 Magnum!” He snuck a hand under his flannel shirt and showed the piece resting in a holder strapped to his side.

Ian nodded once, and turned his attention to Kev, still standing by the back door. “Kev, stay with them, and keep Lip and Carl with you!”

Kev nodded, and held his hand out in Svetlana’s direction, intending to help her up the stairs. She responded with cold silence, cocking her Glock while staring him down. He was confused and creeped out in equal measures, and followed Tommy and Kermit up to the second floor.

Lip tailed behind Kev, calling over his shoulder, “Carl, come on!”

“But the windows,” he began turning toward the front of the bar. “They need help. I’m needed here.” 

Ian could see the indecision on his brother’s face shift to mutiny, and panic threatened to drown him again. He’d been riding a clear-minded wave the last half hour, but thinking about Carl becoming one of those creatures fucked him up.

Carl looked from Ian to Lip, and back. 

Mickey watched their silent interaction. “Ay Carl, keep them safe. They’re gonna need you to watch their backs.” Carl straightened at this and nodded, a soldier entering battle. Pulling his Beretta from the waistband of his jeans, he joined Lip on the staircase.

Ian spent a moment watching the scene with gratitude, before returning to the task at hand. “Right against the windows, Sully. Get them as close as you can!” 

Jamie had set his piece down to aid them, lifting the last of the small tables just as one of the windows smashed above him. 

The space inside the window frame filled with decaying arms, flailing and snagging on the broken glass shards as they stretched and reached for the fresh meat inside.

Several people aimed toward it and opened fire simultaneously.

“STOP!” Ian screamed. “You’re going to draw them over!”

“Then what the fuck do you want us to do?!” Iggy hollered back. 

In a panic, Ian ran to collect the pool cues they’d discarded, and tossed them messily at each Milkovich. “Stab them in the eye!” 

Svet smirked knowingly. “Save stick for playing with balls. Use real weapon.” Pulling the Trailing Point pocket knife out of her boot, she flicked it open and held it up for all to see. She slowly rotated the narrow point, as if showing off her superiority in choice of weaponry. 

“Alright, we get it. Just stab the fuckin’ thing deep enough to hit the brain, would you?” Mickey sniffed. She shrugged in response, climbing atop the booth seat and stabbing at the creatures with precision.

Ian took a running start and jabbed at the crowd like he was an Olympic contender for the javelin tossing. No one but Mickey had seen this kind of fierce savagery in the former ROTC student before. His face was hard and lined with single-mindedness; his eyes wild and manic. 

They fought as a group, taking out as many as they could reach with the long poles. As the undead against the window fell lifelessly against the frames, the horde behind them pushed forward, heaving battered torsos against the chipping glass. Though they were further and further out of reach, they were mindlessly determined to get inside.

It was as if one pile of shit lead to the next, without any respite. As proud south siders, they knew how to make their own light at the end of the tunnel, but this had become a losing battle. 

“All we’re doing is holding them off” Mickey said to Ian, kneeling on the top of the booth next to him. “This ain’t gonna last. We can’t do this shit all night, Ian.”

The unspoken question of _“What now?”_ hung thick in the air as all eyes turned to their self appointed commander in charge. 

Ian’s chest heaved from exertion. “We don’t stop until they’re dead. Every fucking one of them!” He resumed his efforts, picking up his frantic pace. 

Mickey watched the redhead continue, possessed like a drill sergeant on a murdering spree. His heart sunk in his chest. “Ian…”

Jamie whistled at Mickey, getting his attention and signalling him to join them closer to the front entrance. 

Mickey rolled his eyes and scrubbed at his head, sighing heavily. He’d seen this behavior in Ian many times, and knew it would only get worse from here. He swallowed hard, and shook his head to push back the tears threatening to well up.

“Fuck”, he exhaled, scooting backwards off of the table and joining his brother. 

“Mick, take your boy upstairs. We’re gonna use the guns. If we don’t, we die.”

Colin nodded. “We have more than enough ammo here to clear the alley. Buy us a few hours, talk logistics, start making plans for the next phase.”

Jamie laid a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder. “I understand your concerns for him. But this Boy Scout on Crack routine is gonna get us all killed.”

Mickey glanced back at the love of his life, hunched over the living dead, heaving ragged breaths with every strike. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow inhale.

 

*** 

 

Lip paced back and forth across the threshold of the former Rub ‘n Tug. Tommy stood next to the window, peering slowly, carefully out the window. He didn’t want to draw the attention of the herd, but he couldn’t manage to pull himself away.

Carl sat quietly on the couch, fidgeting with his phone. He clicked and unclicked the lock screen repeatedly, disappointment etched across his light features. Kermit leaned forward, peering at the screen in case it was porn.

Carl spoke aloud to no one in particular, “They bailed on me.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Who?” Kev asked.

“My boys. Been tryna get ahold of them for a while. Martin said that he saw the news and that they were about to bounce. That was hours ago…Didn’t think they’d all leave.” He bit his bottom lip and stared blankly ahead. 

Lip was taken aback by the idea that Carl would leave them to join his gang. “Carl, there’s no fucking way we’d leave you behind, okay? Once we get out of here, we are ALL getting out. Fi, Debs, Liam; all of us!”

“Leave me behind?” he stared at Lip. “I don’t want to leave at all. We need to stay and fight, Lip. This is our...home. We’re South Side, man. We’re not fucking mountain men. I don’t care if Ian thinks he’s Grizzly Adams. We stay and protect what’s ours.”

“That shit I just saw is not fucking normal, Carl. We don’t know how widespread it is. We don’t even know what the fuck it is. How,” Lip spat in frustration, “do we fight an enemy that we don’t fucking understand?”

“Know thine enemy,” Kev said sagely, startling Lip out of the slow spiral he was slipping into. “Also know your patrons’ favorite drinks. Rules to live by, Lip my man.” Wrapping an arm around each brother’s shoulder, he drew them in for a group hug, smiling encouragingly. 

Lip let it happen because Kev was right. Know your enemy and what they drink...that was the one thing they knew about their enemy. They liked to drink. Pacing to the open window, he peeked down at the horrific sight littering the back alley. It looked like a slaughter, suppressing the knowledge that these were fellow South Siders. It was the bin he was looking at.

“Beer,” he murmured. “They want the beer. Why?” Some major dots started connecting in his mind. The only thing that could cause--he looked out the window one more time--that is a pathogen of some kind. “It’s a goddamn disease.”

“So like a virus?” Kermit asked.

“Birds?!” Kev pushed Lip away from the window sill and nearly popped the glass out of the casing when it hit the sill. “Keep the windows closed!”

“Jesus, Kev, this is not birds. I think--okay, who saw the first zombie? When did this start?” he glanced around the room. 

Carl shrugged. “We’ve all been together since this morning.”

“Ian and Mickey said they woke up to them at Fi’s,” Kev explained. “That’s the first we all heard of it.”

“Blondie from Fox said reports started coming in this morning,” Tommy added.

Lip nodded looking at each man in the room. “When did Frank start delivering his latest batch of brew?”

“Yesterday.” Kev and Lip stared at each other. “Is-is that beer the patho-whatever?”

“Hang on. Gimme a sec,” Lip pressed his fingertips to his head. The fucking brewery he’d drank himself yesterday was still causing sluggish neural-connections in his own brain. He felt like a zombie himself. 

He felt like a zombie...

“Fuck,” he announced. Alcohol causes confusion, slurring and stumbling, too much could poison the blood and make it toxic. Shit, alcohol depressed the nerves that control involuntary actions. “It’s gotta be the beer. What do we know about it?”

“It’s goddamn potent,” Tommy offered. “Mickey was putting people in the sober seat most of the day. He’s about the only one who could handle it.”

“He drank it?” Lip’s head snapped up.

“The first batch.”

“Right,” Lip said, the same batch he’d tried. “Do we know anyone who drank the second batch?”

“He was going on about where he delivered, but I wasn’t really listening,” Kev said.

Kermit and Tommy recalled talk about deliveries to local construction workers, garbage collectors, amusement park attendees…

“He said he had a large international clientele base, but I think he just meant the gardeners they picked up from Home Depot.”

“He said that some truckers needed a large order asap. They were headed to Lubbock in a week, and needed something for the drive to take the edge off.”

“But mostly to those hipsters and yuppies trying to take over the neighborhood. I didn’t believe him at first. Thought lesbians stuck to their kale lattes or whatever it is they do… But a lot of college kids are slumming it down here to save on rent.”

“Any idea how much he made?” More than vague dots were connecting in Lip’s mind. Depending on the answer to this question, they just might be able to get this thing under control.

“No,” Kev said. “But he mentioned he had more where that came from.”

“More? Where?” Lip wasn’t expecting that answer. 

“Probably at Sheila’s where he was brewing it.”

“Why was he at our place then?”

“Holy fuck! Frank is in the house with them!” Kev shouted practically running in circles trying to figure out what to do. “I should call the house and make sure everyone is okay.”

As he started towards the door, Lip called after him. “Tell Ian to come up here.”

 

***

 

Ian was leaning over the top edge of the small table lain sideways, covering the middle portion of the window. It had become a routine: Stab down in the middle, lean diagonally to stab to the left, tilt the other direction to stab to the right. His muscles responded to the workout gloriously, revelling in the burn.

An idea struck. Could he?... Could they?... He scrambled to the ground and hurried toward Mickey, gathered together in a mournful looking huddle with his brothers.

"GUYS! I have an idea!"

Jamie spoke without making eye contact. "Does it involve the large collection of guns we've barely touched?" He sighed and turned his head away, already confident that it wouldn't.

"We need to cover the lower half of the windows up COMPLETELY. We're not even utilizing our potential, here!"

Mickey chewed the inside of his lip nervously. Colin asked, "Covering up the windows would eliminate this exercise in futility, sure. What'd you have in mind?"

"The pool table! The bathroom stall doors! Hell, the top of the fucking bar! All of this--" He swung his long arms out with grandeur, "All of this is ours for the taking!"

Jamie crossed his arms and frowned skeptically. "Why don't you just move _that_ wall" he pointed to the other end of the room, "...over to _these windows_ , and you've solved the fuckin' day." 

Mickey looked up at him darkly, and was about to put an end to the conversation when Ian responded. "No, no, too much. We'll use that last, if we have to, but ONLY if we ABSOLUTELY HAVE to."

Sully called out from the corner booth, "And how're you gonna get the bar top over here anyway? Did you get some superhuman strength from your stay at the loony bin?" 

This earned a collective chuckle from everyone but Svet, who muttered lowly in Russian and shot Mickey a warning look, and Mickey himself, who's jaw tensed incrementally. 

"With the chainsaw! We have a chainsaw you guys! Why aren't we using it?" His expression morphed from aggressive excitement to impatient dismissal. He stretched his arms above his head, bending and linking them to get a full stretch for his aching triceps.

"Because we left it at Fiona's. We brought all of that shit over earlier, remember? Before we boarded up the place?" He nodded encouragingly, hoping to shut Ian down for the difficult task ahead. Telling a hypermanic Ian to go upstairs and lie down was going to be like pushing a boulder up a mountain.

Ian shook his head resolutely. "Nope! I brought it all with when we went out to get supplies. All of it." He threw his thumb over his shoulder towards the window separating them from the Buick parked outside. "Threw it all back into the trunk."

"You--" Mickey pressed his lips together, nostrils flaring in suppressed anger. "You put all the weapons back in the trunk? What do they have to protect themselves with there, then?"

"Yep! Everything we got from your place this morning, Mick! Even the axe. Oh! The axe could start chopping up the wall while you guys are sawing things..." He took s step back and took a few practice swings, mimicking holding the axe in his strong hands.

Mickey stared at Ian, battling down several different emotions at once. If he thought there was any way they were going to just stroll out into the mass of corpses trying to kill them and make it to the trunk unscathed, then Ian was in need of far more help than he realized.

He was losing his grip on reality, right when Mickey needed him the most.

"What the fuck is that?" They all turned to find Iggy standing in front of the shattered window that faced the main street. He squinted and leaned as close to the window as he safely could to peer out of it.

Ian rushed to join him. He followed Iggy's line of sight to the second story of the building across the street. It was dark, but the streetlights aided them enough that they could make out movement coming from the violently wobbling fire escape.

Jamie mused, "That's the Shevchenko's apartment. They own the antique shop below it. Used to deal to the husband, before he split and left town."

"What is that, on the ladder there? I can't make it out..." Ian tilted his head, holding up a hand over his eyes like a visor.

"Is that a zombie on the fire escape?" Colin asked, shaking his head in confusion.

"Well, he ain't gonna last. These fire escapes can't hold shit. Remember awhile back, when that fuckface Schlafly couldn't pay for the handjob he _already received_ , and tried to exit out the upstairs window like he was gonna escape what he had coming to him?" Mickey looked at the former Rub 'n Tug employee for confirmation.

"Useless ladder break and fall. He break both legs." Svet shrugged nonchalantly.

"Yeah, and then no one's fixed it since. Doubt Chicago's most useless pimp is gonna haul himself up there just to reattach some jankety-ass ladder anyway." Mickey tapped his knuckle against his nose, letting his eyes draw back to the scene unfolding across the street.

Jamie leaned in closer, "Well, that one's about to do the same. Those things can't hold weight for shit... Maybe when it falls it'll be loud enough to pull their attention away? Give us a breather for a minute?"

"I don't think that's a zombie," Iggy spoke so softly it was almost inaudible. They locked eyes on the barely moving creature, clinging to the inside rails. Some of the crowd had broken off and reformed underneath, seemingly sensing that they were about to meet with whomever was inside of it.

"Is that, is that his wife? It seems too small to..." An icy chill ran down Ian's spine. His head whipped around to face Jamie. "Did they have a kid?!"

The color drained from Jamie's face as the memory of a small boy clinging to his father's legs came to mind. "Fuck..." he whispered.

The group fell silent. Even with all of the noise from outside, they could tell the occupant wasn't screaming, wasn't flailing... they were simply holding tight to the bars, trying their best to remain unseen by the dead.

Jamie hurried away from the window. "I can't watch that shit. Kid was barely five years old. Where the fuck is his mother?" He winced, immediately realizing the likely chain of events that led to this scenario. 

She was probably already dead.

Iggy fumed, "We can't just leave him there! What would you do if it was Yev?" He turned to Svetlana, hoping for solidarity. She turned her head away, refusing to meet his gaze. 

Mickey quickly wrapped both arms around Ian's rib cage from behind, hoping to restrain him. "Ian! Don't you fucking think about it! You're staying in here with me!"

Ian spoke with a chilling air of innocence, "Someone has to help him...we would want someone to save Yevgeny." 

Tears welled up in Mickey's eyes, despite the rage coursing through him. "You're not leaving me! You hear me?" 

He knew that once Ian had made up his mind, that was that, and nothing could change it. Ian in a manic state was nearly unstoppable. 

"Ian... I won't let you go out there. I won't. No fucking way!" He choked on his words, his eyes flashing wildly at his brothers, silently begging them for help. 

"I know. But I can clear a path." Ian grabbed Iggy by the arm and spun him away from the window to face him. "If I give you an opening to get to him, can you get there FAST?" 

Iggy nodded blankly. 

"Good. Take the AK and wait for my signal." He gripped Mickey's hands and pulled them away from his ribs. Grabbing two suppressors from the bag, he bolted for the stairs to the second floor. 

"Come on, Mick. We gotta hurry! It's not going to hold much longer!"

Mickey shook his head, unable to process the sudden turn of events. "Where are you going?"

"TO THE ROOF!" He reached the staircase, and flung himself heavily up each step. 

"Ian, you can't access the roof without the fire escape... How would you even--" It dawned on him all at once what Ian was about to do.

"Oh, _fuck_!"


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We ended up breaking this chapter into two, so we'll have an extra chapter in total. Enjoy!

Tommy and Kermit moved away from the door at the loud THUMP THUMP THUMP of someone or something barreling up the stairs from the Alibi below them. When Ian barged through the door, nearly colliding into Kev, the two men lowered their hardware.

“Oh, hey, I was just about to come get you,” Kev smiled pleasantly, as though he were the hostess at a zombie tea party rather than an apocalypse, but the soothing tone bounced off Ian unnoticed.

“No time to talk. We have to save the kid!” Ian’s pupils were dilated and his movements frantic as his head whipped towards the window to his right. He bolted towards it, barely registering Lip or Carl standing in front of it.

“Ian, we’ve gotta talk,” Lip began, stumbling a little as Ian pushed him away from the window. “What the hell?”

“Talk fast!” he spit the words like bullets, barely registering Lip existed. His focus was on something outside the window. “Not going to let anything happen to that kid”. Lifting his chin, he forced the window open rattling the glass and earning worried looks from the men behind him when they caught sight of the Ruger Precision Rifle slung over his shoulder and laying against his back. the chrome-moly steel stark against his white t-shirt.

“I think we’ve figured out the source of all of this,” Lip tried again to get Ian’s attention but he was leaning out the window. “Ian, we think that Frank had--” 

“Yeah, this is gonna work,” Ian stepped away from the window. “It’s gotta.”

Lip wrapped his hands around Ian’s biceps, yanking once to get his attention. “Listen to me for fuck sake!”

“There’s no time, Lip,” Ian freed one of his arms. “The drainpipe is the only solution.”

“Jesus, what are you talking about? We’ve figured out the source of the epidemic, which means that we could possibly find a solution. Rather than run around like chickens with our heads cut off.”

“Not the chickens too?” Kev wailed.

“Give it up, Lip,” Carl suggested. “When Ian’s got tunnel vision, there’s no fighting it.”

“Christ, where the fuck is Mickey?” Lip released Ian’s other arm, and Ian crouched down to the floor removing his sneakers and socks. “Someone yell down to Mickey,” Lip said, disbelieving eyes on his brother. “Ian?”

Before any of the men could move though, Ian lifted one long leg out the window so he was straddling the window ledge. The sight immobilized the room while they processed what they were seeing. This gave Ian enough time to hunch forward so his head and torso could join his leg.

Hanging out the window.

“Oh shit,” Carl whispered behind him walking blindly backwards in the direction of the stairs. “MICKEY!”

Ian’s face briefly appeared. “Tell Mick I’ll meet him on the roof.” He disappeared again, keeping a tight grip on the window sill and spinning his body around to face the men staring in awe at the calm determination. He was perched on the outside of the window like the world’s largest pigeon. His feet angled to plant themselves on the ledge, and he wrapped a large hand around the drainpipe that ran to the top of the building.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey bellowed from the doorway. “Am I interrupting your fucking circle jerk?” His scowl was met with slack jaws as all eyes turned from the scene outside the window to the exasperated face of Ian’s keeper.

“No no no, you are _not_ doing this shit. Ian!” Mickey ran to the window just as Ian got both palms around the pipe on either side of it like he was about to invite it to dance. “Ian…” but Mickey was too late. The redhead placed the sole of one bare foot against the front of the pipe, leaning his weight away from the pipe and preparing to shimmy to the roof.

Or fall to his fucking death.

“Ian, come on, man,” Mickey said calling on every ounce of patience he could gather. “There’s gotta be a better way to save the kid.”

“What fucking kid?” Lip asked. Mickey could feel the guy’s breath on his cheek as he poked his head out the window next to Mickey. “What the fuck is going on?”

“If you fall to your fucking death, I’m jumping down there after you and you’ll have my death on your conscience,” he hissed as Ian let go of the ledge and was now relying completely on his ability to climb a fucking pipe.

“We don’t have time to _think_ , Mick. We gotta _act_.”

“Does that include acting fucking stupid?” he barked but turned slightly to speak to the other Gallagher. “I’m gonna lean out further. If he falls, I’m gonna grab him. We’re both going down unless you can hold me.”

Lip pulled away and Mickey could hear him telling Carl to help. “Okay, you better not fucking drop him then.”

Ian had maneuvered about halfway up the pipe, his hands and feet working in sync, the muscles along his arms straining as they held his weight. Fucking hell, Mickey could feel himself getting hard. Goddamn Gallagher was like a match just waiting to set him on fire. 

“Why you gotta be such a fucking GI Joe all the time, Ian? Jesus, Iggy could a found a way a way to save the kid.”

“Iggy is involved in this?” Lip asked. “Whose kid?” 

Ignoring him, Mickey sucked in a breath when Ian’s hand slipped a little on the metal. “You goddamn idiot. Don’t you dare die on me.”

Ian let out a breath and slid his eyes to Mickey. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never leave you.” Then he mouthed _I love you_ as he heaved a hand to the top of the building and Mickey felt his dick harden again. How could he be getting off on this shit? 

“Fuck, I’ll be lucky if the zombies kill me,” he muttered.

Lip’s voice nudged him out of his spiralling thoughts. “I’ve been trying to tell Ian that I think Frank’s brew caused this and maybe we can figure out how to turn it around.”

“Are you shittin’ me?” Mickey spat but his eyes never left Ian. “I drank that asshole’s poison.”

“Batch 2?”

“No, I--Christ almighty, get your other hand on the roof and pull yourself over, Ian. Stop fucking hanging there like a demented spider monkey. I’m gonna have a coronary.” He saw movement in the alley below them, so he reached for the gun at his back. No way was he letting a bunch of drunken Frank wannabes gnaw on his boyfriend, but Ian pulled himself up and over the edge, disappearing to the roof.

“Hurry up, Mick!” Ian shouted. “They can’t stop us up here! Bring your rifle!”

Mickey actually pressed his hand to his heart, encouraging it to slow the fuck down. When this was over, _if_ this was ever over, he’d get Ian some pills, hold Ian down and shove those pills down his throat if he had to. Hopefully though, the guy would remember his promise.

_For us._

Jesus, he was gonna have to climb a fucking drainpipe.

 

***

 

Jamie watched his youngest brother fling himself up the stairs with purpose, chasing after his boy like a Milkovich mother hen herding cats, except it was only one cat. And a feral one at that.

Sully broke the collective silence that hung over the Alibi since Ian and Iggy decided to throw on a couple of capes and save a kid. “He’s going to the roof? Didn’t Mickey just say--”

“Ay! Ig!” Jamie cut in, watching carefully as Iggy gathered enough lead to start World War Z, his eyes down and his movements swift.

“Iggy! You open that door, I’ll fucking end you.” Jamie joined his brother at the booth, trying to slap the weapons out of his hands, but Iggy jabbed an elbow into his brother’s rib. 

“Back the fuck off,” he snarled, setting off Jamie’s brotherly responses.

“Fuck you, I will!” Jamie hissed, reaching around the for a box of 9mm cartridges that Iggy was emptying into his jacket pocket. “You’re not going anywhere. He ain’t right in his head, and you know that.” Jamie spread his feet, blocking Iggy’s exit. “Mickey is handling his problem, and you’re not going to create another one.” He was struggling to keep his tone level and assertive despite the panic invading every cell of his body. It was just now dawning on him that they were in actual danger of dying. Like really truly fucking dying. 

“Ian’s got nothing to do with this, okay? You joining me? Or are you gonna let that kid get mauled like a goddamn coward?” Iggy spat, ending his words as a statement not a question. Before Jamie could retaliate, he added, “Like dad would do!” He yanked the shells away from Jamie and hurried to the door.

“Dad?” he hissed following Iggy like a nagging wife. “That fucker would a used one of us as a shield, so fuck you for comparing me to him.” But he beat Iggy to the door and slammed a sweaty hand against it, hard. 

Iggy glared at his hand, pulling his bowie knife from the back pocket of his jeans, snapping it open and jammed the tip into the door barely missing Jamie’s pinkie. They stared at it. 

“Fuckin’ fine, just… give me a second, jesus christ…” It’s not that he didn’t want to save the goddamn kid; it’s just that he wanted to save his goddamn brother more. He already had one brother willing to throw himself under a zombie bus for someone who wasn’t technically family; he didn’t need two. He looked to Colin for help, something, anything to shake Iggy from his rash mindset. Colin shrugged, “Honestly, my money’s on Ian.”

Jamie’s eyebrows arched incredulously at Colin’s betrayal. “Has Ian been handing out crazy Kool-Aid and you all decided to drink it?” But his brothers only looked back him, leaving him feeling like maybe he drank the Kool-Aid. “Well fuck. At least fucking wait for the gutbags to move away from the door!” he yelled, watching the impending situation unravel. 

He looked from Colin to Sully, covering the front window, to Svet who was behind the bar, pouring herself shots like she owned the joint. His eyes returned to Iggy, who stared him down expectantly. “On Ian’s signal,” Iggy explained slowly and deliberately, “I’m out.” 

Jamie tried to form the words to stop him, but he already knew, as they lay unspoken on his tongue, that the only thing that’s about to stop his younger brother from this suicide attempt is to physically restrain him.

He decided, instead, to join him.

Jamie squeezed his eyes shut and mentally counted to ten. His eyes popped open. “I’m gonna need those 9mm slugs, Iggy.”

“For what?” he asked suspiciously.

“The Buick. Gotta blast open the trunk.”

“I have keys.” Svet retrieved the keys from her pocket, dangling them invitingly in front of her self-satisfied expression. She tossed them across the room into Jamie’s outstretched palm.

He turned his hand over, reading the engraved silver keychain: _You’re my favorite asshole_. This threw him for minute. Why would Mickey have this on his keyring? Eventually all his thoughts fell in line like a lock tumbler engaging and he laughed out loud. Jesus, his was proud of his fucking brothers. They weren’t born with silver spoons shoved up their asses, but they did okay. “Alright, tell me this, Ig, once you get to the kid, what the hell are you planning to do, exactly?” 

Iggy’s eyes flashed with menace. Jamie had seen this look only a few times in the past when Iggy needed to prove to himself he was capable of something. Today it seemed that he needed to prove to himself that he was capable of not becoming Terry Milkovich. 

On second thought, Jamie figured that was something he wouldn’t mind proving himself. 

 

*** 

 

Carl watched as Kev and Kermit cheered Mickey on, half of their upper torsos wedged through the window together. “You got this, man, you’re almost there! You can do it, little buddy!” Kev chanted.

The responding ”Shut the fuck up!” carried into the room, ignored by everyone. Carl knew Mickey had made it safely to the top when Kev started cheering and jumping, smacking his head on the window pane above him. 

Carl was getting used to the constant buzz of near death that was hovering around them, but it seemed to be taking a toll on Lip, who was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall across from the window and his focus on the pack of smokes he was crushing in his palm. He lit the stick with a shaky inhale.

“So… all those zombies are zombies because of Frank’s beer?” Carl tuned the raucous shouts of the others out to tune in on a conversation with Lip, who had seemingly run out of steam to move his mouth to respond. Lip, he knew, needed to be in control. He’d assigned himself to the role Frank had failed to ever fill, and didn’t appear to be handling the whole fucked up z-poc scene well. Or Ian’s fucked up genes. Or Frank’s fucked up craft beer business.

Lip splayed one hand out in front of himself helplessly, shrugging his shoulders. The other hand stayed firmly planted on his cigarette, his fingers coiled around it like a lifeline. It had all caught up with him. 

Carl watched him intently, his eyes flicking occasionally to the window. “You think it made them so drunk they just... died?” The idea of then coming back to life because of the same brew was a leap his brain wasn’t capable of making, on a good day.

Lip blew out the smoke, watching it dissolve. “That’s just it, Carl. I don’t think they’re dead.”

This threw Carl. “Then we...all those...people...we…” he couldn’t finished the sentence.

“Yeah, we killed them.”

“But, but it was self-defense, right Lip?” And Lip nodded. “How do you know they aren’t dead though?”

“Dead things don’t move, Carl. And they don’t come back to life. Dead is dead,” he explained. “Science doesn’t bend; our beliefs bend. We believe they’re the walking dead because that’s what they fucking look like, but that’s just not possible. 

You know where the idea of zombies first came from? People who were accidentally buried alive trying to claw their way out of their coffins. When grave robbers dug them up and saw the scratch marks on the inside of the coffins, they thought they’d returned from the dead.”

Carl’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “But they were still alive,” he whispered.

“Right, so what are those zombies out there?” he asked tipping his head at the window and taking a deep drag from the smoke. “They’re just really fucking drunk.”

“Jesus,” Kev muttered. “I may never drink again.”

Tommy piped up, “I guess you could say it all went to their heads.” 

“I think AA has its new campaign for sobriety,” said Kermit. 

One by one, they all began to laugh, releasing the tension enough for Lip to find his way back. “Only Fuckin’ Frank could end alcoholism.”

The room lifted imaginary glasses into the air. “To Frank,” they cheered.

“But,” said Lip pushing up to standing. “The amount of damage that’s been done to their system is irreversible. They may be alive but only as a technicality. If there’s some sort of cure for this, they need to get it before it destroys their body.”

“So what do we do about them?” Carl asked confused.

“Kill them before they infect the entire South Side.”

A familiar sound rang out, shaking the window pane just as Carl was about to ask Lip if they should be doing something to help Ian. He rushed to the window, pushing between Kev and Kermit. The alleyway below was covered in zombies slamming angry hands against the walls, door, and broken window panes, demanding entrance with their relentless aggression.

He looked to his right and stretched his head out a little further. When he heard and felt the dull ringing sound again, his suspicions were confirmed, and he felt a flutter of pride for his brother and his lover on the roof.

 

*** 

 

Down the block from the Alibi, past the pawn shops and the appliance rentals, the second hand clothing stores and questionable take out restaurants, sat an abandoned old church building.

And that church building had a bell. The access point to the rope pull had been closed off for ages, but one could still find that bell if they looked up at it from the right angle on the sidewalk.

Or if they were an expert shot.

Ian stood with one foot planted firmly on the ledge of the roof atop the Alibi, holding the Ruger Precision Rifle steady against his eye, his left hand gripping the soft rubber forearm and his right hand spread over the pistol style grip, releasing 10 round magazines as fast as his body could absorb each recoil. 

The shots rang loud and clear, probably alerting all of the south side to its movement. But all possibility of drawing more zombies in got pushed aside when Mickey looked over the ledge to see Iggy striding with heavy intent out the front exit, with Jamie close behind him. They were virtually unseen by the creatures surrounding the Alibi, all turning away distractedly at the sound of bullets hitting the old church bell.

Ian’s plan had worked.

He studied the back of Ian’s form, carrying out his plan with efficiency and satisfaction.

With every squeeze of the trigger, his back muscles tensed beneath his fitted t-shirt just a fraction, acting in conjunction with one another.

“You think you can hit it every time, Mick?” Ian asked casually, glancing over his shoulder playfully.

Caught off guard, Mickey replied distractedly, “Huh?” as his eyes trailed down Ian’s lower back and firm ass a few more times.

“The target.” Ian lowered the gun an inch, and murmured, “4 o’clock, three shots.” He lifted the Ruger back up and hit the lower right corner of the bell three times consecutively.

Mickey lifted the rifle laying propped up against the ledge, and took his stance next to Ian. He felt a creeping sense of meaning in their actions, knowing that every insane thing happening at this moment was because of Ian, and that they were safer for it.

“You remember when we used to do target practice together? That teddy bear we had?” Ian chuckled warmly.

Mickey shook his head at the thought, grinning. “You weren’t bad, man. Pretty decent shot.” He squeezed the trigger, relishing in the gratifying sound of the bell echoing his perfect aim back to him.

He smiled when he heard Ian scoff, knowing he had succeeded in riling up his pride. “ _Pretty decent?_ I had your ass beat every time!”

“Sure thing, Army.” Mickey continued to meet every hit Ian landed on the bell, finishing his round with triumph.

“Hey, wanna play whack-a-mole?” Ian looked down at the ground below them and Mickey lowered his rifle. What they were doing was a dizzying combination of heroic and psychotic. He could use a bit of Ian’s mania at the moment to shut down the knowledge that once upon a time those zombies were fellow South Siders. Now, though, they just needed to die before they killed everything in sight.

So he joined his soldier in kicking some ass.

He eventually had to step away from the ledge for the extra cartridges he’d left with his jacket. As he squatted down for them, he stared at Ian’s taut form, utterly focused on his job, all confident, slightly evil grin and lean muscle, aiming and firing. His heart, which had taken more than its share of beatings where Ian was concerned, took one more hit as he remembered the Ian who had left him to join the army. That Ian had never really returned, and a part of Mickey missed him every day. Maybe, it was because they had grown up. Maybe, it was because they had both be forced to deal with a broken heart.

Whatever it was, Mickey had always been under some sort of Ian Gallagher spell and today, at this moment, it felt like his old Ian was back. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but he didn’t want to break the spell. 

But reality fucking bites and so do fucking zombies, so he did reach his palm out to Ian’s back running it over his shoulder blade and down his spine. It followed the curve us his lower back and over the slight rise of his ass. He could feel Ian push back slightly into the touch, and Mickey’s dick responded predictably. It had no fucking clue what a zombie was apparently.

Mickey cleared his throat. “Gonna check on Ig.”

He lowered the rifle, not-so-discreetly adjusting himself in his pants. Not like anyone else was gonna see him getting hard over this Human vs. Zombie shit with his boyfriend up here on the roof, anyway. Fuck it. 

He crossed to the side wall, hoping like hell his brother was safely on his way back to the Alibi with a kid in tow.

 

*** 

 

The moment Iggy heard the first shots hit their target outside, he unlocked the front door of the Alibi, but Jamie held his hand over the edge of it, keeping it shut, his finger to his closed mouth, cutting of Iggy’s retort before it began. 

Iggy scrunched up his face in defiance, and Jamie silently tilted his head towards the door, indicating that Iggy should listen as the growling and snarls slowly pulled back from the other side, walking towards the commotion that Ian had created.

Jamie signalled with three fingers for Iggy to prepare himself. As he lowered each finger it joined the others to wrap around the trigger guard of his semi-automatic, until his index finger met the cold metal of the trigger, and Iggy threw open the door. 

Pausing only a brief second to take in the horde slowly staggering toward the old church, Iggy raised the bowie knife and pistol in his hand, feeling Jamie moving in sync behind him. When a shadow moved to their right, Jamie took aim and the whoosh of his silencer filled the air around them.

By the time Iggy was halfway across the street, it was apparent that they had been wasting their time fighting zombies when all they needed was a fucking bell. Like a bunch of rats in a kid’s story. His eyes met Colin’s, who was standing in the Alibi entrance ready to shoot. They shrugged at each other. 

He loosened his stance, holding onto the gun with both hands but allowing himself a moment to breathe and check on his brother again. Iggy had crossed the street, and was using his bowie knife as it was intended. Pride swelled up in Jamie again. They were gonna feed off these stories for years to come.

Since he was handling himself fine, Jamie dropped one hand, letting it fall to his pocket to retrieve the keys. He made his way past the other now-abandoned cars, bloody hand prints marking the sides of most of the vehicles. 

As he lifted the jingling keys to the trunk, he caught sight of Iggy struggling to push a battered dumpster across the alley. His shoulder was pressed to the side of it, but the screeching sound of metal against concrete had attracted at least one zombie.

Jamie shouted loudly in an attempt to warn Iggy, but the screeching blocked out any other sound.

He stepped up onto the trunk, and stood in the middle of the roof, shouting and waving his arms, trying to vain to pull the zombie’s attention towards him. A crowd began milling around him, but Iggy’s zombie was mere feet away from him with an outstretched arm.

 

***

 

Carl watched from the second story window as Iggy crossed the street, and Jamie jumped on the roof of the car, desperately trying to draw attention away from his brother, who was out there kicking zombie ass because someone had to be a hero.

Just like his own brother.

_"We don’t have time to **think** , Mick. We gotta **act**."_

The words reverberated in his head. They all needed to act. Not just Ian. Or Mickey. But all of them. He’d thought selling drugs and pulling in cash made him a man, but that only made him a criminal. Being a man meant people could rely on you. It meant being selfless.

But it also meant being fucking bad-ass because he got to scale the side of buildings like fucking Spiderman. Then save a kid, your family and eventually the world. Or the South Side at least. His world. The only world he knew.

He could see Iggy trying to muscle a dumpster under the fire escape and the kid, but attracting zombie attention, so he lifted his pistol and took aim. 

He hit the zombie dead on, just as it had laid its hand on Iggy’s shoulder. The blonde Milkovich spun around, shooting two slugs between its eyes before it had completed its slump to the ground. 

To Carl, it almost seemed like an eloquent dance that they were all involved in. Working together. This was his crew, he realized. They were bad-ass in a way that came natural to them; it wasn’t forced or a show they were putting on. It was who they were. 

_“So I’m running down the alley with two heavy tanks, right? … Hurled the tank that was leaking behind me and threw my lit Zippo at it. Whole place lit up like a fireball!”_ Iggy had bragged in the bathroom of the high school what felt like a lifetime ago.

But with the memory came a nagging sense of intuition. Something lingering, something right in the front of his mind. Something someone said. 

Lip had connected the source of the zombie outbreak to Frank’s brew. _“They’re just really fucking drunk.”_

Then Tommy had mentioned that the booze had gone to their heads. Carl grabbed Lip’s arm. “Do you…” he said searched his brother’s eyes, “do you think these things could catch fire?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be a match right now. Why?”

Another memory of Iggy from earlier this afternoon, running out to the back dumpster with a tequila bottle, waving it in the air as he charged the crowd. 

Carl’s attention drew to real-time Iggy, struggling to catch his breath as another zombie grabbed his hoodie from behind, dragging him backwards. Iggy struggled to free himself, slipped and was pulled down behind the dumpster, just out of Carl’s sight.

“Carl?” Lip stared back at him with piercing blue eyes.

 _“Kill them before they infect the entire South Side,”_ he practically shouted Lip’s previous words to him as it all came together.

He was down the stairs and behind the bar before Lip knew what had happened. 

“Where does Kev keep the rags?” he asked the room not really expecting an answer.

“In basket,” Svet replied pointing to the end of the bar. “You cleaning house? Of course you would. Just like Carrot. Losing mind.” 

His chest heaved with his exhilaration and adrenaline. His eyes scanned the area around him, finally landing on Svet, who was watching him from her perch behind the bar. She tapped the side of the vodka bottle with her thumb nail. The sight of the Smirnoff label and the bad-ass Russian stopped him short. 

“Svet, how do you make a Molotov cocktail?”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to our sweet, wonderful Julia on her wedding day. We love you with all of our braaaaaaains. ;-*

Iggy was close enough to the apartment building to see the red and blue Spiderman pajamas covering the shivering kid. The sight triggered a memory from Iggy’s own childhood. Holding Mickey’s hand in the backseat of Terry’s old Chevy, the black spider on the front of his pajamas visible in the dim street light as their father argued with a couple of men over whatever was in the trunk, and Iggy distracted his little brother with tall tales of superheroes saving innocent citizens from a host of bad guys. Eventually Mickey had fallen asleep beside him with images of super human protectors filling his dreams, and Iggy felt proud of himself.

Apparently those stories had been training, preparing them for a zombie apocalypse, and at this moment a young boy needed him to figure out how to scale a wall so he could perform a heroic rescue. By the looks of things, the wobbly, rickety fire escape was currently a bigger threat than the undead who were hiding around every corner.

He had his bowie knife and Remington 870 out as he crept closer to the apartment building, surveying the area for possible alternatives to getting bitten by a radioactive spider, which didn’t seem so far fetched now that hordes of zombies were their new reality. 

Barely breaking stride, he stuck his knife in the neck of a zombie, stopping only when the handle met flesh. As the creature began to fall, he yanked the blade free bending down to swipe the blade clean on a dirty coat and realizing belatedly that if he was close enough to see the kid’s pajamas then the kid was close enough to see him. 

That thought disturbed him because the kid was about the same age as Mickey was that night in the Chevy, and Iggy remembered his little brother’s fear as they’d waited to see if Terry would return to the car looking for a fight. Had the kid seen him stick the zombie like it was just another day at the office? Sidestepping a body in his path, he shot a look at the third floor landing just as the kid stepped forward reaching his little hand out to Iggy.

“Aw, fuck,” Iggy groaned. Don’t move, kid! He didn’t shout it for fear of startling the boy and drawing the attention of more undead, but he increased his speed. Adrenaline made his movements fluid and focussed. His gaze scanned the area searching for a way to get up there that didn’t include using the questionable metal stairs. 

Once he reached the apartment, he looked up at the kid who was hanging over the edge of the fire escape watching Iggy with rapt attention. The metal dumpster would get him high enough to at least reach the bottom of the fire escape, so he pushed his shoulder into the side of the dumpster, which didn’t budge even an inch.

_Shit, fuck._

“Push harder, mister.” The voice carried down to him distracting him from his mission.

“Shh,” he hissed up to the kid, adding a finger to his lips for emphasis. Then he gave the bin a second shove adding a bit of a running start, and the metal wheels squeaked with movement as his shoulder exploded with pain. “OW!” 

“Shh,” the kid reminded him. It almost made Iggy smile, but stayed focussed on his task, giving the dumpster another running shove sending it screeching across the alley toward the cement sided wall.

The clang alerted a zombie that a potential snack was close by, but before he could take a bite out of Iggy, two slugs hit him between the eyes and he toppled backwards. They hadn’t determined yet if a bite from one of these fuckers would kill you, zombify you or just simply hurt like hell, and Iggy didn’t want to be the test subject. Fuck you very much.

“MISTER!”

The word sent a warning to Iggy’s spine, but he wasn’t able to react fast enough. A desperate hand tangled in the hood of his jacket and yanked him back, behind the dumpster. His ass hit the cement hard, followed by the back of his head when the lurching asshole landed on top of him. It was stronger than it looked and had Iggy pinned, its mouth heading straight for Iggy’s throat.

A high pitched scream worthy of the best B movie Hollywood ever produced split the night air. The sound distracted Iggy’s attacker long enough for him to grab greasy hair and yank it to the left, the force bringing the zombie’s head in contact with the edge of the dumpster. Iggy rolled with him, reaching for his bowie. 

“Close your eyes, kid!” he yelled, and then severed yet another spinal column.

Shoving the knife into his back pocket, he heaved himself onto the closed dumpster just as the fire escape pitched to one side sending the kid skidding to the edge, his arms wrapped around the metal railing. Whatever bolts still remained weren’t gonna hold long.

“Jesus, kid. You’re gonna have to jump,” he shouted bracing his legs and lifting his arms. “Can you do that?”

Nothing happened, no kid falling from the sky. “Are--are you a superhero?” he asked.

“I was gonna ask you the same question,” Iggy replied waving his arms a little reminding the kid that the goal was to get down. “Why don’t you come down here an--umpff.” The wind left Iggy’s lungs in a whoosh as a cold little body hit him square in the chest, and skinny arms wrapped tightly around his neck. 

A weird tingling curled around Iggy’s heart. “Then we need to save my mom!”

 

*** 

 

“Do not overfill,” Svet snapped. “Americans. Amateurs.” Carl stopped pouring 100 proof vodka into the beer bottles at Svet’s command. Six bottles were lined up on the bar top, half full of clear liquid and dish soap. “Now insert fuse.”

Once each bottle was stoppered with a vodka soaked cloth, Carl transferred them to an empty cardboard box, which he lifted carefully in his arms. Svet lit a smoke, exhaling as she watched him, then handed him the lighter. “Do not light self on fire.”

“I wish I could promise that,” Carl said staring at her calm face and wondering why she didn’t have her own crew. They’d own the South Side in no time. Maybe he’d see what she was doing when this was all over. He could use a new business partner cause he had ideas. “I’m out.” He nodded at her, and she lifted one eyebrow in disdain but Carl was sure her lip twitched just a little.

Out on the street, Carl could see Jamie to the right, standing on the hood of Mickey’s car, his booted foot aiming for a face stretching up toward him. Several other freaks were moaning around him, but none appeared to have retained their climbing skills. To the left, Iggy had jumped from the lid of a dented dumpster, a boy slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he made his way back to Main Street.

Zombies were rambling everywhere now, along the sidewalk, across the street, everywhere, but they were too dispersed for him to effectively use his homemade napalm. 

Fuck! He was momentarily frozen in indecision, but fate was on his side. The weight of the fire escape was finally too much for the remaining bolts securing it the side of the building, and it crashed to ground below, clanging against the dumpster before breaking apart on the asphalt. The noise was deafening and drew the attention of every single zombie on the street.

Carl raced along the sidewalk, taking the cue from Jamie and jumped on to the trunk then the hood of a ‘78 Cutlass. He set the box of bombs carefully on the hood. Before pulling a bottle out, he rotated his shoulder a couple times and made a few dry runs, even lifting his leg a little like a pitcher on the mound. 

By that time, the alleyway around the fallen fire escape looked like a Metallica concert, all moaning, flailing zombies knocking into each other. 

“Now or never,” Carl said quietly to himself, grabbing the first Molotov cocktail from the batch, lighting the wet bar cloth and hurling it into the crowd. 

 

*** 

 

“Your mom? Shit, where is she?” Iggy tossed the boy partially over his shoulder and jumped to the alleyway landing with another jarring thud, wondering if he could run with the kid to the Alibi and let someone else have the heart-to-heart Your Mom’s A Zombie chat with him. Maybe Ian. Not Svetlana, though. What Iggy didn’t want to think about was finding the kid’s mom in anything less than full human condition. He’d rather slice a thousand more spinal columns that watch this kid lose his mom.

And again, he felt the parallels to his own childhood. To how their lives changed forever not long after that late night drive. No kid should lose their mom.

“Let’s go save your mom, kid,” he said hoping like hell that all it took to save a woman was positive thinking. 

The fire escape was useless to them, leaving the front door the only way in. Jogging around to the front of the building, he scanned Main Street for potential problems.

“Hurry, Mister,” the kid whispered in his ear as he jostled against Iggy’s chest.

“I gotta watch for bad guys. They like to hide, but I got my supersonic eyesight.”

“I’ll watch too.”

“How ‘bout you use your supersonic hearing?” Iggy suggested tucking against the side of the building as a lurcher made his way across the street. He could see his brother kicking at zombie heads from the top of Mickey’s car and Carl run toward a parked car, cardboard box in his arms. “The only way it works though is to close your eyes and listen.”

“Okay.” Iggy felt the boy’s face press into his neck. “I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s good, kid.”

And just then the fire escape dropped from the side of the building behind him, nearly giving him a fucking heart attack.

“I heard that.”

Iggy chuckled. “Me too, must have supersonic hearing just like you.”

The noise caused total chaos on the street, and Iggy took the opportunity to run toward the front of the antique shop. He stopped short when the front window shattered following a loud BANG, sending painted glass and a nearly headless corpse across the sidewalk.

Iggy wrapped his bruised fingers around the back of the kid’s head holding him in place, then peaked around the now empty window frame into the antique shop, coming face to face with the most spectacular gun he’d ever set eyes on. Eight barrels splayed out like the fingers of a hand, allowing the shooter to spray a sizable area with a single shot. A spiked handle hung low from the handle, and an old fashioned knife stuck out of the front, hovering mere inches from Iggy’s nose.

Above the black iron barrels, two large brown eyes stared back at him, and he couldn’t decide which sight he fell in love with more.

“What is that?” he asked the slender woman who hadn’t yet lowered the pistol.

“Duck footed pistol, Napoleonic volley gun popular with the Royal Navy…it’s an antique” she explained, staring so wide eyed that Iggy wasn’t sure if she was even really seeing him. “Those were my only bullets.”

Then she started to cry. 

“Momma,” the boy said trying to lift his face from Iggy’s neck as he stepped over the window casing and entered the storefront.

The sound shook the woman from her trance. “Benji?” The gun fell from her fingers clanging against the tiled floor. “What? You’re supposed to be hiding under the bed.” She launched herself at the boy, caressing his face lovingly, and checking him for injuries. “I don’t understand.”

Her tears were a combination of fear and relief as Benji patted her hair. “I went on the fire escape cause a noise scared me, but it’s okay. Spiderman saved me.”

“Spiderman?” she asked looking Iggy in the eye. 

“Yeah, exactly like Spiderman,” he said smiling a little. “If he wasn’t bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“So just a run of the mill hero then?” She wrapped her arms around both her son and Iggy, staring at her son’s savior with eyes shimmering with gratitude.

“I’d be a kick ass hero if I had _that_ fucking gun. That's the sweetest--”

Then the world behind them exploded.

 

*** 

 

“It’s like we woke up this morning in an action movie, Mickey.” Ian’s voice was laced with awe and childlike wonder. “I’ve never felt so…”

“Horny?” Mickey asked hopefully, darting a look at Ian while the world below them turned orange with fire and a thick smoke drifted upwards. He was not going to examine why the sight of exploding beer bottles and melting zombies got him excited because he was just grateful that some part of his life was consistent. Wanting to bang Ian was like true fucking north.

Ian laughed and turned away from the explosion below to look at his boyfriend. “That goes without saying. I’ve been horny for about three years, no breaks.”

“Three years, huh?” This caused one eyebrow to lift in mock disbelief.

“Yup,” Ian agreed. “Ever since you stole Kash’s gun.”

Mickey wasn’t surprised that got Ian off. Their fight in his room later was like a redheaded Molotov cocktail exploded into Mickey’s life, leaving his old life nothing but carnage.

Thank fucking god.

Sucking a little on his lower lip, he gave Ian a good eye fucking letting him know without any room for error exactly where he wanted this discussion to end.

“Holy shit,” Ian suddenly yelled drawing Mickey’s attention to the scene below. Jamie had joined Carl on the Cutlass, and had just aided in setting a neighboring car on fire. Ian waited with baited breath, eyes dancing in anticipation of the impending vehicular explosion. 

He’s like an excitable puppy in the body of a Rottweiler, Mickey thought. His soldier, ready to fight, to do whatever it takes to make things right. Not bipolar, manic, a harm to himself and others; just alive. Full of passion. Manic Ian Gallagher was exactly what this zombie apocalypse needed. He sure as shit was exactly what Mickey needed.

“I’m fucking proud of you Ian.”

“Mickey?” he asked looking away from the excitement below. He tilted his head and smiled. “Now you know how I feel. Always.”

“Shut up, man. This is me talking ‘bout you.”

Ian was in front of Mickey, pressing their chests together and almost knocking Mickey backwards before he had had the chance to blink. “Oh yeah?”

Mickey could feel the heat radiating from him, and looked up into Ian’s green eyes staring intently at him. Ian leaned in close and whispered, “What is it you wanna talk about?”

Mickeys eyes flicked up and down, from Ian’s devilish grin to the strong planes of his chest that Mickey’s hands were running down absentmindedly. He exhaled softly when Ian pressed his hand against Mickey’s hard-on. “You wanna talk about this?”

Then he pried Mickey’s fingers from where they were gripping Ian’s firm ass cheeks. “Or this?” he asked placing Mickey’s hand on the front of his jeans against his impressive bulge.

“Maybe this?” He kissed him with enough fire to steal his breath away. Coming up for a breath, Ian watched Mickey lower the zipper on his jeans, freeing Ian’s erection. “Now?” Ian asked, looking as childishly hopeful as he did darkly determined.

Mickey wrapped his hand around it, squeezing it once before running his closed fist over it repeatedly. “Hell, yeah… no one else up here but us, man.”

Ian’s pupils were nearly dilated, feeling kinship with Mickey’s newfound freedom from inhibition. Today had been a wild ride, and it looked like they’d managed to turn a corner on this whole apocalypse thing. 

Ian’s head fell back a little his boyfriend dropped to his knees in front of him. “God, Mickey… you’re perfect.” His mouth was so fucking warm. Wet. Damn it, he wanted to howl like a fucking lunatic, but he also wanted to save himself to get Mickey off, except his boyfriend’s perfect pout was stroking him...again and again and again. “You’re my perfect match,” he whispered.

Mickey was lapping up the attention. _Goddamn right, Firecrotch,_ he thought. _And don’t you ever forg--_ he stopped moving, staring blankly as confusion set into his features. His expression turned urgent as he forgot his ministrations and bolted towards the back end of the building, to the window they had climbed out of.

“What the hell, Mick?” Ian snapped.

He bent over the ledge, hoping like fuck that the peanut gallery downstairs had been paying attention. 

“AY! ASSHOLES! GRAB THE FUCKING MATCHES!” His voice carried across the rooftop to where Ian is still standing, unsure how the space in front him no longer contained his boyfriend. “LIP!”

The use of his brother’s nickname coming from Mickey’s mouth snapped Ian out of his sex-filled fog. “Mick, what are you…”

“GET THE FUCK OUT HERE!” 

Tucking himself back into his pants, Ian poked his head over Mickey’s shoulder as he leaned over the roof ledge looking down at the back alley of the Alibi and the zombies who were scrambling around the broken bottles.

Just as Mickey opened his mouth to bark another command, Tommy and Kermit popped their heads out of the window and gazed up, befuddled but eager to help.

“GRAB THE MATCHES! IN THE—FUCKING--THE DRESSER! TOP DRAWER!” Their heads disappeared together. “GRAB SOME PAPER TOO!”

A moment later, they returned with several small packs and an old newspaper in hand.  
“What are we doing with it, Mickey?” Kermit asked already starting to separate the paper into sections.

“Light those motherfuckers on fire, that’s what,” he spat. “Carl and the boys have incinerated the entire front street cause these fuckers are flammable.”

“Makes sense,” Tommy concluded striking a match and touching the tip to the balled up newspaper in Kermit’s hand. “I’ve been afraid to light up with Frank around sometimes. Might burn the Alibi to the ground.”

All four men watched as the fireball sailed to the ground landing dead center of Frank’s brew that was spilled in front of the dumpster. Nothing happened. For about 2 seconds. Then the whole area went up in flames.

“Again,” Ian shouted. “Again.”

“Easy now, Firecrotch,” Mickey snickered at his pun, maybe finally understanding just a little how much he had to gain in letting go and having fun. This lit a fire in Ian’s eyes, which lit a fire in Mickey’s groin. “God damn it, get over here.”

As the whooping and hollering escalated all around them, Ian’s chest colliding again with Mickey’s. Then their lips met, and the world faded away. They helped each other remove their pants and boxers, frantically returning to their base desires with even more urgency. 

Neither of them felt the cold air on their skin as Ian guided Mickey around by his hips, bending him forward and pressing himself against the back of Mickey’s taut thighs.

Mickey fought the move, forcing Ian to stumble backwards. They fell to the ground, the discarded clothes acting as the only separation between the skin of Ian’s naked behind and the cold concrete. 

Normally, Mickey wasn’t too picky about positions, and he was never one to turn down a quick doggy style bang.

But tonight, he was going to ride his man into the roof of this building, and like hell was he going to concede control of the high he was feelling. They were gonna fuck face to face, and he was going to get off on watching the embers of manic desire burn in Ian’s eyes until they extinguished each other in the way that only they could.

They moved in tandem, Ian’s wild red hair tangling under his fingers. Soon, only the feel of Ian’s warm body against his and the cool concrete of the roof beneath his knees remained.

 

*** 

 

The front door of the Alibi opened and Svet sauntered out, looking at the fire burning in the street, and the smoldering remains of some unlucky bastard’s SUV. Her gaze stopped on Sully, who had stepped out of an alcove to the left of the Alibi door. 

“We won this fucking war,” he announced then swept Svet up in his arms and pressed his lips to hers so forcefully she bent backwards...until her knee found what it was looking for and Sully slumped to the ground.

“No more Ukrainian pussy,” she snapped, continuing up the street in search of a vehicle that would get her to Homan street, back to the tiny Ukrainian she was interested in snuggling up with.

Jamie and Carl stood proudly on top of the Cutlass, surveying their surroundings with a sense of accomplishment. He slung an arm around Carl’s shoulder. “You did good today, kid. Real good.” 

Carl beamed at the accolade, and shot a look at the blood coated Buick a few spots down. “So, if Iggy was over there--” he pointed to the battered antique shop across the street, where a serene-looking Iggy was watching the fire, holding a small boy with his face buried in Iggy’s neck, both of them wrapped in the embrace of a woman staring adoringly up at the middle Milkovich, “--then what were you doing over there on that car?”

Jamie chuckled quietly to himself. “Well, before you walked out here and saved our asses, I had the idea of finally putting that Stinger to good use.” 

At Carl’s quizzical look, he continued. “It’s a shoulder-slung missile launcher. We’ve been chasing out some of these asshole lesbians trying to run every poor family out of town with their yuppie shops, and I figured now’d be the perfect opportunity to take out some more of their Gap and Starbucks monstrosities without any pigs showing up. The zombies would be drawn to it, and we’d all make it out of the bar without getting bit.”

Carl remembered hearing about the Zen Beanery getting shot up recently, and nodded appreciatively at the unsurprising news that it was a Milkovich job.

“I know those lesbians. Some of ‘em, anyway. Got their Range Rover towed, but they just got angrier.” Carl thought back to seeing the tight-lipped blonde on his doorstep, utterly unmoved by the news that a family had lost their home of 13 years due to the growing gentrification.

_“FYI, we don’t scare easily.”_

Carl put on his best faux innocent look. “You know, it’s not too late to use that missile launcher…”

Jamie arched an eyebrow in admiration, mulling it over for all of three seconds. He and Carl shared a look, huge grins splaying across their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering what an antique Duck Footed Pistol looks like:
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

“You took out the SoulCycle with a Stinger?” Fiona choked on the mouthful of beer she was trying to swallow. Liam giggled in her lap, entirely unaware of the content of the conversation, but loving the way the beer shot from her mouth. “Fuck, Carl.”

“What’s a Stinger, FiFi?” Liam asked slipping his cold fingers inside her jacket pocket. The bonfire was toasty, but they’d been sitting there since Carl and his other brothers got back to their house from being gone all day. By now, his fingers were starting to feeling cold.

“It’s a missile, Liam.” She rubbed his arms and tucked him into her side, and he started to feel cozy enough to fall asleep.

“I had some help,” Carl started to explain. He sat forward in his lawn chair, tipping a little to the left as the one leg was bent.

Jamie sat beside him and smiled, “Yeah, Double G was my gunner. SoulCycle is now a pile of fucking rubble. Seriously, what kind of asshole rides a bike that don’t go nowhere?”

“Namaste, douchebags,” Mickey snarked, accepting the beer that Lip offered him. He twisted the cap, but hesitated before bringing it to his mouth. The smell kind of turned his stomach and several images from the day flashed through his mind. He set the bottle beside him on the bench, leaning heavily against Ian’s shoulder. Fuck, he was tired.

He could feel the energy radiating off the redhead and felt a little defeated. How was he supposed to keep an eye on him 24/7? The guy needed to rest when he rested. Before letting his eyes close for a couple minutes, he slipped a finger through the belt loop of Ian’s jeans under his hoodie. No one could see, but he’d be awoken if Ian tried to leave his side.

“It was fucking awesome!” Kev marvelled. “I had just stepped out the front door of the Alibi, and I swear I almost had to go rub one out when I heard the whir of it being activated.”

Vee eyed him over her beer, lifting an eyebrow in interest that didn’t go unnoticed by Kev. They continued to have a silent conversation, while the group continued to discuss who was where when Carl launched the missile at the upscale exercise studio.

“I was still inside, coming down the stairs, when I heard it fire,” Lip frowned in disappointment that he hadn’t gotten to witness it.

“ _PHFEW_!” Carl yelled, spit flying from his lips.

“Uncage the seeker,” Jamie yelled back at him.

“KABOOM!” The two guys high fived, and Lip smiled at the pride that Carl was trying to hold back, but failed to. It’s hard to look cool when you’re lapping up admiration.

“I felt it shake the whole building. Thought maybe the end of the fucking world had officially happened,” Lip added. “Nice work, little brother.”

“Fucking unfair,” Mickey mumbled, eyes still closed. “That was my fucking Stinger. Pricks.”

Ian tilted his head enough to get his nose in Mickey’s hair. He inhaled then whispered, “I was balls deep in my sexy fucking boyfriend when I heard the _phfew_.”

Mickey’s eyes flew open and scanned the circle of Milkoviches and Gallaghers, but no one heard that. Not that they would be surprised. He had made a very public announcement that he really fucking liked Ian giving it to him on the regular. He closed his eyes again. “Face to face.”

That put Ian in his place. Mickey could hear him sigh and didn’t need to look to know that he’d gotten all heart eyes on him. He kept his own eyes closed just in case.

“Well, at least it went towards a good cause, right?” Lip countered. “The studio wasn’t completed yet, so no one was in there… Not like it made sense to open a new location around here when there’s already three of them on the north side.” Mickey propped an eyebrow at this sudden revelation from Mr. Ivy Tower himself, and wondered if Lip was still trying to cement himself as a lifer to Mickey and his brothers after the Zen Beanery incident.

“And then Iggy left with his new girlfriend…” Carl nodded appreciatively. “She was fucking hot.” He held his hands out in front of chest to demonstrate exactly how hot she was.

Fiona and Vee simultaneously reared their heads back in surprise. “Iggy has a girlfriend?”

“A _hot_ girlfriend?” Vee added incredulously.

“During a zombie apocalypse?” Fiona turned to Vee. “And I’m still fucking single.”

Jamie smirked around his beer bottle. “Sure looked like she was into him. Kissed her right after the explosion, right there on the sidewalk in front of all of us. Don’t think he knew her for more than a minute. Then they went upstairs to her place, and seeing as how I ain’t heard back from him since, I’m guessing it all worked out.”

  
Fiona readjusted Liam on her lap, running her fingers through his hair absentmindedly. “And this was the mother of the kid he saved? God, I can’t believe I’m saying that out loud… can’t believe _Iggy Milkovich_ saved somebody’s kid.”

Jamie ignored that last comment, letting it slide for now and answered, “Mina Schevchenko. And don’t knock it; he’s a big step up from that shmuck former husband of hers. At least somebody was there for that kid.”

“Iggy and Mina,” Ian smiled. “I like it.”

Kev added, “And then Svetlana poured vodka shots to celebrate.” He paused frowning in confusion. “Like she owned the fucking the place, come to think of it.” The thought passed as he realized how ridiculous that was. “Anyway, we were talking about what a great temporary solution fire was, and how even if it doesn’t end the zombie war, at least it’ll keep everyone safe for awhile, right? I mean, at least we get a good night’s sleep out of it.”

Vee gave him another knowing look, followed by a dazzling smile full of memories. Some sweet, but most of them raunchy. Now that their trial separation had come to an end and they were passionately reunited a mere hour earlier, there was no way she’d be letting her Hulk of a husband get any sleep tonight.

He continued, “It’ll keep us from having to play zombie hunter until the government shows up in those funny yellow suits and takes all the zombies back to their underground experimentation area where they keep all the aliens. Wait, holy shit…”

Before he could continue, Carl practically jumped from his lawn chair. “ALIENS VS ZOMBIES.”

“Totally, man,” he said still in awe at the elaborate top secret government shit going on. “Where was I?”

“On a fucking tangent,” Mickey mumbled yet again from somewhere near Ian’s armpit. The night was wearing on.

“Oh right! So then Carl was like, ‘Well, I’ve got the flamethrower back at the house…’ and we lost our shit! Time for a fuckin’ Gallagher party!” He raised his bottle in toast to Carl.

“So that was your idea, too?” Fi asked. They all looked at the fence lining the edges of their backyard. Colin and Sully hung at the side perimeter, holding the flamethrower with barely restrained devious grins, waiting for the next zombie to approach. They were far and few between, at this point, but they could occasionally catch sight of one ambling over across the wide open side lawn.

“Of _course_ it was Carl’s idea,” Debbie added, standing at their side with a long-necked pilot lighter in one hand, and an aerosol can of hairspray in the other. “Duh. Who else would have a flame thrower lying around?”

Colin shrugged. “That’s fair. Ours broke at Uncle Ron’s wedding to whatsername? His third wife-- Ay! Two o’ clock!” He tipped his head towards a slowly approaching zombie, and then noted to Debbie, “Keep the nozzle just high enough that it hits the flame, but doesn’t coat the whole wand. And you want to keep the bottle far enough away from the flame, but just close enough that you get the desired effect.” Debbie listened intently, then went through the motions as instructed, glancing back at Colin for approval.

Fi frowned as she watched this. “Someone needs to keep an eye on them. God knows she doesn’t need another older man to have sex with.” The group was aghast, even Jamie.

“Jesus, Fi,” Ian spat. “Let her have this. She could use some self-esteem boosting from older men who _aren’t_ trying to get into her pants.”

As Jamie sipped his beer in agreement, the rest of the group fell quiet, taking in the irony of Ian’s words.

“You’re right. Sorry, Ian…” She looked sheepishly from Ian to the brunet resting on his head on Ian’s shoulder, quietly thanking every god in existence that Ian’s daddy issues phase seemed to finally be over. Although it seemed like Ian was still in need of a caregiver. She was just too overwhelmed to deal with his refusal to take his meds. With so many things on her plate, he couldn’t expect her to follow him around double checking his stability.

Carl tapped Mickey’s arm with the back of his hand, passing him the blunt. Mickey took a hit and passed it on, picking up his nearly-forgotten beer on the ground at his side. After taking a hesitant sip, he looked at the bottle with regret. “Never gonna drink beer again. Not after everything that went down today. Shit’s fuckin’ gross.”

Nevertheless, as Ian passed the blunt to Kev and Mickey entwined his fingers with Ian’s as they rested on the armrest of his lawn chair, Mickey continued to sip from his bottle, quietly. Habits die hard. Especially the habits you love.

Mickey was like a habit Ian had picked up when he was 15, and he’d thought joining the army would give him the distance to quit him... but nothing, not even a pregnant Russian prostitute was able to come between them. You can’t just quit love. It doesn’t work that way.

Ian wondered if Svet was going to be able to quit love. He hadn’t really realized how important Nika was to Svet until he watched her take her lover’s life in order to protect her from a worse fate. Would Ian be able to do that for Mickey?

Fuck. His stomach heaved and he had to bend over to get his head between his knees for a second. The beer, the weed, the fact that they hadn’t eaten anything but the three cases of Snickers bars that Mickey had grabbed from the Kash 'n Grab were all taking a toll on him.

Fi and Vee continued recounting their relatively uneventful afternoon, with the highlight being the moment Vee went outside and shanked a zombie who kept banging on the windows, ensuring that the twins would continue screaming instead of napping in silence.

“I offered her the bat, but…”

“But I just had these nails done the other day and I was NOT about to mess them up until I knew that this mess would be over soon and the salon would be up and operating.” She looked over at Debbie, squealing with joy as her latest opponent was lit ablaze. “So Debs here gave me her shiv to use, like a lady. Isn’t that right, Debs?”

Fiona continued, her words beginning to slur, “And then, and this shit’s fucked up so fuck you guys in advance, but Frank was--”

“LIAM!” Lip leapt out of his chair, the only one to notice that Liam had crawled out of Fiona’s lap and was almost to the chain link fence. He scooped the toddler up in his arms, cradling him and blowing raspberries into the coat above his stomach, trying to distract himself from the fact that Liam had almost come into contact with the corpses littering the ground on the other side.

“So,” Fi continued but got distracted again by the sight of Ian huffing and puffing, then dropping his head between his knees. His lips were moving and it looked to her like he was praying. “Ian? Are you okay? You praying or something?” He scowled at her like he always does when she starts to show any signs of concern, and she felt a wave of self-righteous anger. “Found Jesus?”

“No _Fiona,_ I found fucking Mickey.”

Mickey swatted at his nose for moment looking between the two of them. “Yeah, turns out I’m all the Jesus he needs.”

“That’s right,” Ian nodded vigorously. “And I’m gonna take those goddamn fucking meds because he’s goddamn fucking worth it. O-fucking-kay?”

The whole circle of partiers went silent, staring at Ian. “O-fucking-kay,” Fi replies. “I was just asking.”

“Yeah, well, I promised him that I’d go to the clinic when, well, when the apocalypse is over.”

“Ian,” Mickey interrupted. “For us, right? Not just for me.”

Nodding again, Ian shoved his chin out at the group. “I’m doing it _for_ us. But...I’m doing it _because_ of Mickey.”

Mickey looked down at his dirty boots trying not to see the dark red stains on them. He knew Ian cared and they’d come along way in their relationship, but it wasn’t until that moment--hearing Ian defend him so intensely--that he realized how much he needed that. Fiona had sort of accepted him the last few weeks, and Lip had noticed that Mickey was trying to help Ian even when he had no fucking idea how, even when he felt so out of control and lost that he was sure his own trip to the psych ward was around the corner.

But now all that shit was out in the open, laid bare. Ian had shoved it in their faces, and they were helpless to deny it.

He could see something like respect on the lot of Gallagher faces, and he smiled at Ian because fuck, that’s why he did all this shit he’d really rather not do. Because it made Ian fucking Gallagher happy, and that’s what made him happy.

Mickey would conquer whatever demon it took to make the guy smile. The only thing he couldn’t bare was the idea of Ian sad and lost. That shit killed him.

 

***

 

Not ten minutes later, Ian glanced down, and noticed Mickey was passed out cold on his shoulder. He could never get enough of the serene look on Mickey’s face when he was sleeping, entirely free of worry and strife.

This was what he wanted to wake up to, every day. For the rest of his life, if he had anything to say about it.

“Hey”, he pressed a soft kiss to Mickey’s forehead, shrugging his shoulder gently to wake Mickey up, hoping to avoid the defensive fists that normally accompanied him being woken up abruptly. “Let’s head upstairs and lay down.”

Mickey grunted in response, but his face was soft and open. It was like he had yet to realize they were surrounded by family and friends. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore. A zombie apocalypse could really fuck with your priorities.

Ian waved goodnight to their family still huddled around the bonfire, wrapped his arm around Mickey’s side, and helped him navigate his way around the debris in the Gallagher’s backyard. The remains of their pool were scattered around the yard. It felt like a lifetime ago that he and Mickey had stood side by side fighting the four zombies that had come out of nowhere.

“Hey, Mick? You got a weapon on you?” he asked. “I don’t.”

Mickey jolted away from him, looking around for danger. “Where?”

“Sorry!” Ian grabbed his arm. “I just meant we should have one on us. In case, you know.”

“Fuck, yeah, makes sense.” He tipped his chin toward the back alley. “Let’s grab something from the trunk of the Buick.”

At the car, Ian reached through the driver’s side window to pop the trunk, while Mickey waited at the back of the car, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back. The lid popped up and his gaze immediately settled on his nunchucks. “Fuckers at least left me those. Fucking Stinger. Fuck sake.” He was feeling pretty irritable, and wondered where the fuck Ian was.

“Gallagher, what weapon do you want?” he called out, grabbing the sticks and tossing them from hand to hand adding a few figure eights. “Ruger or what? Gallagher?”

As soon as the name left his lips for the second time, his half asleep brain kicked in. “GALLAGHER!”

Rounding the back of the car, his heart shot into his throat. Ian was half inside the car, his legs dangling along the driver’s side door and kicking at the creature behind him as it was attempting to bite his leg. Mickey released the end of the nunchuck in his left hand with a fierce snap aiming for the temple. It snapped the zombie’s head to the side, giving him an opportunity to swing the stick back under his arm for another hit. This time it broke the creature’s already misshapen nose.

“Fuck sake,” he spat, grabbing the matted hair and dragging the former South Sider to the back of the car where he located a hunting knife.

By the time he’d finished, Ian was beside him, helping to deposit the body near the trash bins. “Fuck sake,” he repeated unnecessarily. “What’d we think, the fucking garbage men are gonna pick them up on Thursday morning?”

Ian started to laugh, bending at the waist. “Shit, I fucking hope so.” Mickey chuckled along with him, slamming the lid and pressing the Ruger into Ian’s hand. “My hero,” Ian snickered. “I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve saved me.”

“I’ve lost fucking count of how many times I’ve had to clean up a dead fucking zombie. Seriously, how hard is it to pick up your dead zombies?” he retorted guiding Ian toward the house and the single bed that at this moment seemed like the best place on earth. “You promise to lay down with me, man? Stay fucking put while I sleep?”

“I solemnly swear to watch you while you sleep. Never take my eyes off you.” Ian lifted his fingers in the Boy Scout salute, and Mickey mimicked him but used only one finger instead of three.

They paused when they entered the living room, just before heading up the stairs. Jemma and Amy were cuddled up together on one end of the blanket on the floor, nestled safely between the couch and the coffee table, braced against the recliner to form a baby-safe perimeter.

Svet was curled up on the old recliner with Yevgeny bundled in a flannel blanket, his tiny fist clutching it tightly in his sleep. Ian couldn’t help but think that he resembled his father when he was like this. Peaceful.

Mickey stared longingly at Yev, and Ian ran a gentle hand down the curve of Mickey’s spine, stopping at the dip of his lower back.

Ian whispered into Mickey’s ear. “Come on, baby. Let’s go to bed.”

They climbed the stairs gingerly, not wanting to suffer the sleepless consequences of waking the slumbering infants, or pissing off the Russian mother.

Opening the door to their room and taking in the current state of a day at war, Ian looked to their bed, too small for a 17 year old at his height, but the perfect size for two weary souls desperate for rest. Their discarded clothes from earlier that morning were in a pile next to the dresser where they’d left them after their first encounter with what lurked behind their back door.

Ian watched Mickey undress with soft eyes, unable to find the words to express how grateful he was to have him in his life, protecting him at all costs, and accepting him unconditionally. He allowed himself to linger on Mickey’s movements for a moment longer, and then joined him in stripping down to his boxers.

Mickey climbed into bed first, the sheets still in disarray from Ian’s abrupt wake-up call claiming that the MPs had arrived to take him away. Ian figured his life would have changed abruptly even if it had been the actual military officials at the door waiting for him.

His shoulders relaxed when Mickey scooted himself far enough that his back pressed against the wall, beckoning silently for Ian to join him. It would take a force far more fierce than a horde of zombies to keep him from sharing a bed with Mickey.

Contentedly, Ian climbed onto the mattress, pulling the sheet and blanket up with him as he snuggled close and wrapped his arm around Mickey’s chest. The heat radiating from the brunet’s torso was enough to pull Ian under, and in less than a minute of staring at his boyfriend’s long eyelashes and pouty lips, his own eyelids began to fall shut.

Mickey stirred under Ian’s defined bicep. “Ay.”

Ian breathed him in deep and pulled him in closer, “Mmmhm.”

“Gotta piss.”

Ian laughed out loud at the poor timing. “No. Too comfy.”

Mickey scrunched his face up in displeasure. “You want me to piss here, instead?”

Ian groaned. “All right, but come right back. You’re fucking warm.” He felt the weight of the older man as he climbed over him, groping Mickey’s boxer covered ass cheek as the opportunity struck. “Hey, Mick?”

He blinked his eyes open at the sensation of Ian’s palm on him, and sure enough, his dick started demanding a release of more than just piss. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” Ian opened his eyes to find sparkling blue ones staring back at him sleepily. “Love you, too, Ian.” He leaned in for a kiss, before hopping off of Ian and onto the floor.

His hand had reached the doorknob when Ian called out again, “Wait, Mickey?”

He tilted his head back in frustration. _“What?”_ He could feel his bladder ready to rebel against him.

“This is the part in every horror movie where one of us gets it.”

Mickey smiled at the sound of thick, heavy sleep lacing Ian’s words. “Alright, man. I’ll be sure to stay outta the basement.” Ian chuckled at Mickey, and then fell back down effortlessly into his pillow, already halfway back into slumber.

Mickey shook his head at his adorable dork of a ginger, and then padded his way down the hall and into the bathroom.

He flipped the light switch, squinting as it threatened to blind him. The tiles felt cold under his feet as he approached the toilet, boxers already dropped down to his ankles.

As he waited for his bladder to empty, he caught movement out of the side of his eye. He craned his head to the left, and eyed the shower curtain wearily. It fluttered again.

“Someone in here? The fuck…” Whichever perv was waiting to watch him take a piss was gonna get a golden shower if they showed their fucking face. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. Twelve hours as a fucking zombie hunter and he couldn’t even take a goddamn piss without thinking he was going into combat.

He faced forward and resumed his business, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Straight out from the sizzle travelling along his spine. To the right, he saw nothing but the bathroom door cracked slightly open. Just how he’d left it. A slow swivel to the left brought him back to the shower curtain, atypically closed.

As the stream of piss trickled to an end, he peered around the plastic shower curtain, nudging the geographic map printed on the outside but found nothing. No human form, no legs standing underneath Africa.

But wait…

He couldn’t quite make out the large object at the bottom of the tub, so he shifted towards the tub and took small, shuffling steps, not bothering to pull up his boxers, too drawn in by several dark colors all bound together, like black, brown, red…

 _Dirty clothes,_ Mickey chided himself, outstretched hand hovering towards the curtain, paused in mid-air. _It’s where they put the blood soaked shit they were wearing._

Sighing at himself in frustration, he dropped his hand from the curtain. _Fucking Gallaghers. Probably be the goddamn death of him._

Realizing he needed to grab his boxers from around his ankles, he turned back toward the door and right into the cold hands of Sammi Slott. Vise-like fingers curled around his throat, jagged fingernails digging into the tender skin of his neck. Her widened, blood shot eyes were filled with fury. Blackened tongue licked at her bleeding gums. Teeth gnashed at him, aiming for his jugular.

Mickey stumbled backwards, feet tangled up in his goddamn boxers. Desperate to get away from her, he pushed her hard in the chest, but her hands continued to clutch at the sides of his throat, squeezing hard enough that he could feel the cartilage contract under the pressure. He wrapped his thumb around his fingers forming a fist, then pulled back his shoulder landing a punch to her cheekbone. The cracking sound echoed around the tiny bathroom, but she recovered quickly, pulling herself closer to Mickey’s face.

He reached for the closest object he could find--the unplugged clothes iron on the shelf to his right, and swung as hard as he could connecting the front tip with her forehead. The v-shaped indent immediately started spurting blood, and she released her grip, falling to the floor.

Rage distorted her face when she snarled up at him, and heaved herself forward with unnatural speed. Before he could react, her shoulder connected with his chest and he crashed through the shower curtain ripping it from the rod when his back hit the side of the bathtub.

He heard his name being called from down the hall, but his breath had been knocked completely out of him by the hard porcelain. _Ian_ , the word ricocheted through his brain. _Stay away!_

The image of Ian hurtling himself at Sammi to save Mickey spurred him to action. As he gripped the plastic handle of the iron in his now sweaty hand and lifted it above his head, Sammi picked herself up off the floor and sunk her teeth into his thigh, tearing a two inch gash in his flesh.

He roared in pain. Without thought, he brought the iron down with all the force in his body, connecting over and over with her skull, until she stopped moving.

He sat immobile, breathing in shallow pants, arm still held over the lifeless corpse, iron clutched tightly in his fist.

As the shock started to set in, he looked up to find Ian standing in the doorway, mirroring his own horrified expression as he stared at the bite on Mickey’s thigh.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_Ian rolled over onto Mickey's red blanket, exhausted from their efforts. Their third time had been their best so far, and he let the tangled blanket and sheets be a trophy he bore proudly, happily ignoring the misshapen lumps under his back._

_Mickey sighed deeply as he reached for a cigarette off the top of his nightstand. He lifted his arm to light it, watching it fall back to the mattress with the lack of energy required to maintain it. He laughed at the sight, and it was beautiful and open._

_Ian had seen Mickey's bright smile on more than one occasion, often accompanying a threat or crude joke of some kind. But he had never heard such a sound emit so willingly from Mickey before, happily bubbling up from his chest._

_"Damn, Gallagher. Don't know what lit a fire under your ass, but feel free to bring that move with you the next time we bang." He grinned wide around the cigarette held lightly between his teeth._

_Ian stared at it quietly, his eyes tracing the curves of Mickey's lips. His blue eyes shone brightly against his dirt-and-sweat soaked skin, the latter entirely a result of Ian’s aggression._

_"Want to play video games for awhile? It's just Mandy and me." He refrained from mentioning the name of the man who had walked in on them their first time, not wanting to break the safe bubble of their afterglow._

_"Nah, I'm beat. Was already gonna pass the fuck out, but then your scrawny ass decided to barge in uninvited," he said with amusement._

_"Didn't want to miss the opportunity." Ian stared him down, daringly. Mickey returned his gaze like a challenge, a satisfied smirk playing at the sides of his mouth. He lifted his lighter, and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply as his eyes flicked to Ian's mouth and back._

_"Want me to hang out here, for a bit? I could bring in some pizza bagels--"_

_He paused as Mickey's smile dropped completely, the fire effectively extinguished from his eyes. He scratched at his temple with the back of his thumb. "Not a good idea." He sniffed, and looked away, avoiding Ian's disappointment._

_"Oh... okay, Mickey." He crawled over Mickey's spent form, shaking his foot as he untangled from the clutches of the blanket._

_Mickey chewed at his lip. "Gotta be somewhere with Jamie and Tony tonight. Need some fuckin' shut eye, man." Ian wondered for a brief moment if Mickey was offering up this information as a way to let him down gently, so as not to feel rejected. He shook that thought away, and pulled his pants back up to his hips. "That's okay. I understand." He gave Mickey a half smile, shrugging as he buttoned his jeans._

_Mickey's eyes lingered on Ian's face, biting back the words that lingered on his tongue. He instead watched as Ian pull his shirt back over his head, and turned towards Mickey's bedroom door._

_He glanced at Mickey as his hand reached for the doorknob. "Well... see ya." He smiled, and made his way back to the living room._

_He returned to his spot on the couch, ready to resume studying. Mandy was too focused on the game to notice his spiked adrenaline levels, nor the dopey, sated look on his face._

_"Took you long enough."_

_"Yeah. Your dad was in there forever."_

_Just then, the door to Mickey's bedroom slammed shut._

_"Shove over, faggots." The brunet himself plopped down next to Ian, pressing himself against Ian’s side._

_Mickey propped his feet up on the coffee table, took a big sip of his Big Gulp, and grabbed the controller out of Ian's hands._

_He chewed the pizza bagel with his mouth open. Ian eyed him dreamily, smiling bashfully at Mickey before quickly averting his gaze._

_"Watch and learn."_

_As the next half hour went by, Ian fought with all of his willpower not to stare at him openly in front of Mandy. But when she slammed her controller onto the coffee table in defeat, hurrying off to the kitchen to bake the next batch of pizza bagels while muttering dark threats against her chuckling, victorious brother, Ian let his hand brush discreetly against Mickey's thigh._

 

“IAN! Snap the fuck out of it!”

The whip of Mickey’s voice tried to penetrate Ian’s dreamlike state, but his brain was struggling to remain focused on why Mickey would be yelling at him. _Ian looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen, assuring himself that Mandy was far out of their orbit as he allowed a finger to trace softly against the outer seam of Mickey’s jeans..._

“Ian, fuck baby, come on, please.” This time the shaky pitch of Mickey’s voice tugged at something more than just Ian’s brain, and he blinked at the brightness of the bathroom light before his eyes could send vital information to his brain.

Sammi.

The daydream shattered and sent him straight into his nightmare. Literally the worst nightmare that he could have conjured up. Sammi was slumped headfirst between the base of the tub and the toilet bowl. Her legs were bent at an odd angle, and droplets of blood were splattered almost anywhere that Ian’s eyes landed. 

“Mickey, oh my god.” He took a step forward wanting to help Mickey off the floor so he could get away from the dead woman. She was no longer a threat to them, but Ian wanted to keep Mickey safe. “You need to get away.”

“She’s fucking dead,” he spat leaning his head against the ledge of the tub and breathing deeply, like he was in pain. “But Frank ain’t.”

“No! You need to get up in case she’s still...a zombie. I don’t want her to hurt you!”

Mickey lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at Ian then released a resigned sigh through his nose. “Yeah, yeah, okay, but we gotta do some shit before we freak the fuck out.”

“What? Cause it’s way to late for that plan. I’m already freaked the fuck out. You—” His eyes dropped to Mickey’s leg, but his brain started that fuzzy daydream thing again.

“You gotta find Frank.”

“Seriously? No way. Fuck him. He caused this shit and if I do find him, he’s a dead-fucking-man.” Again, Ian dropped his eyes to Mickey’s thigh, but this time he didn’t stop himself from slipping. It was too perfect to return to the place where he and Mickey were safe, before all this ridiculous shit started happening. Before any of the stupid shit with Svetlana or Ian’s brain malfunctioning.

“Ian!”

The agony in that got through to Ian completely and his eyes started to spill over with tears of sorrow and defeat. “Mickey,” he whispered, dropping down beside him and burying his face in his neck. “No, no, no.”

Mickey ran his hand along Ian’s back pulling him a little closer and letting him come to terms with what was happening. “Okay,” he whispered. “Ian. Find Frank now.”

Ian sat up so he could make eye contact with Mickey. “Why?” He didn’t want to think about anyone but Mickey.

“If she,” he waved a hand in the direction of Sammi’s lifeless body, but neither of them broke eye contact, “got out then Frank is probably on the loose too, and there’s kids in the house.”

“Oh my god,” Ian repeated, standing up abruptly. “YEV!”

“Go! I’ll get her in the tub, outta sight.”

Ian spun around and because he’d left his heart in the bathroom with Mickey, it didn’t stop beating when he saw Svetlana staring at him from the middle of the hall. She looked visibly shaken, her arms crossed over her chest. She shook her head once, _no._ Ian wasn’t sure what she knew, but he wasn’t letting her anywhere near Mickey. He wouldn’t trust her. Not with Mickey.

He got to her before she could move. “Go get Lip,” he ordered, putting as much authority in his voice as he muster. She shot off a string of Russian, probably swears, but Ian stood his ground. “Get Lip. Please.”

Before she could respond either way, another voice interrupted his thoughts. It was like sandpaper against Ian’s skull. “What’s the racket? This is my castle and I’m trying to get some sleep.”

Ian threw open the door to Lip’s room and flipped on the light. “Jesus, turn that off,” the voice groaned from under a pile of blankets. “I might have a spot of a hangover.”

“Frank?” Ian spat in disgust and disbelief.

“And here I thought Lip was the smart one.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” Ian dove at the bed ripping away the old beige comforter and straddling Frank’s emaciated frame. His hips attempted to buck Ian off, but he wasn’t even making a dent in that plan. 

Rage and fear and helplessness bubbled up in Ian, some of it going back 18 years but most of it going back five minutes. “You stupid motherfucker. If he dies....” but Ian couldn’t finish that thought. “He is not a zombie!”

“What are you talking about? Have you gone off the deep end again?” Frank wrestled one corpse-like arm free from where it was pinned beneath him. Shoving it into Ian’s chest, he smirked, “Talk about zombies. Are you taking your meds?”

The mockery in that question was just enough to set off Ian’s last thread of sanity. He wrapped both of his hands around Frank’s neck and squeezed. Immediately, his face turned red from the pressure and Ian could feel his own face heating up. 

“I hate you. I hate you,” Ian chanted. His voice rising with each repetition and his fingers contracting around the scrawny throat. “I hate you.”

“Ian!”

Hands yanked at Ian’s shoulders pulling him backwards. He tried to shrug them off because he wasn’t leaving until Frank inhaled his final sour breath.

“Ian!”

Next thing he knew, he was laying flat on his back on the floor of the bedroom staring up into Lip and Carl’s horrified faces. “Let me go! I have to kill him. He has to die.” Spit flew as he screamed the words at them and tried to pry Lip’s arm off his chest.

“For fuck sake, why?” Lip demanded, adding pressure to his forearm. “I thought he basically had one foot in the grave.”

“Nine lives, Lip,” Carl added. 

“Get off me!” Ian managed to get one arm free and bounced an awkward punch off Lip’s cheekbone.

“Stop it! Tell me what’s going on!” Lip yelled back pining Ian’s fist to the floor. “Get his other arm, Carl.”

“Carrot boy crazy because Mikhailo have bite.”

Shocked, Lip and Carl released Ian slowly as they turned to look at the doorway. Svet was staring back at them with cold eyes. “He is bit by crazy sister.”

Ian released an anguished howl and curled onto his side, his face pressed into Lip’s thigh. “No-oo,” he cried and started to sob. How could this be happening? After a lifetime of clawing and fighting to barely survive, he'd found true love with Mickey, just to lose him like this. No, no, please, God, no.

“Ian?”

The voice washed over him like a soothing hand. “M-mickey?”

“Come on, get up.”

“I can’t,” he whispered between sobs. “I don’t want to.”

“Please. I need you to.”

Ian cracked his eyes open and looked up at Mickey. He was still in his boxers, but he’d put a t-shirt on, his hair was damp and some of the water was clinging to his eyelashes. The sight made Ian smile a little, then he noticed a streak of blood on the side of his neck and his eyes shot to Mickey’s leg. 

A strangled choke escaped. The front of his right thigh was an angry red, but the wound was hidden behind the bloody towel he had pressed to it. Ian sat up, crawling over Lip’s legs to get to Mickey.

Kneeling in front of him, he laid his hand over the one Mickey had on his thigh. “Here, let me help you.”

“Thanks.” 

Ian looked up at Mickey, and when their eyes met, Mickey smiled at him. The smile seemed to reach his whole face, and it made Ian smile back. Reaching a hand to Ian’s cheek, he said quietly, “I love you for loving me so fucking much.”

Tears slipped past Ian’s eyelids again, but he felt a wave of calmness. It was so clear to him now what he had to do. Why had it taken him so long to see it?

“It’s okay, Mickey, cause I’m going with you.”

He watched Mickey’s face shift. The smile was gone, and in its place was the confused look he loved almost as much. “No.”

Ian just looked at him. “Where you go, I go.” He shrugged his shoulders once to show it was just the way it was. “Simple.”

Mickey sat heavily on the end of the bed, and Ian moved in close, still holding the towel to his leg. “I’m fucking tired,” he sighed but linked his fingers with the fingers of Ian’s free hand and squeezed hard. 

“I think we should clean the shit out of your wound,” Lip interrupted getting the attention of the room as he got to his feet. “I was thinking that this outbreak is in many ways consistent with rabies, and the first thing you need to do if you’re bit by a rabid animal is clean the wound.”

Ian stood up like a jack in the box being released from its box as a manic wave of endorphins hit his system. “Yes! Okay! First aid!” He zeroed in on Lip. “Get the supplies. I’ll get Mickey to our bed.”

Sitting on the bed next to Mickey, he looped an arm around his waist, but before he pulled them to standing, he leaned in for a kiss. His lips gently touched Mickey’s for a couple of seconds. Just as they parted, he whispered back. “I love you for loving me too.” 

 

***

 

Mickey watched the Gallagher brothers flit around upstairs of the old house, moving between rooms gathering shit and discussing his fucking leg, and how Yev and the twins were at Kev’s away from all this. One less thing to worry about.

At one point, Frank’s annoying fucking voice penetrated the stupor that kept trying to wash over Mickey’s mind.

“Somebody bring me my Milk of the Gods!” 

Even from half a hall away, the desperation in Frank’s voice was obvious. He hoped the asshole was suffering, and if his own leg wasn’t aching like a motherfucker, he’d get up himself and make sure he was suffering.

“This is your father speaking!”

Even in pain and half conscious, Mickey wasn’t able to contain his peevishness. “Shut your stupid fucking pie hole, Frank,” he yelled back. 

Ian paused at the doorway with towels and a basin of water. The expression on his face was easy to read: he was remembering that he hadn’t finished killing Frank. 

“Ian,” Mickey moaned. “I feel like shit.” As planned, Ian’s attention was now on him not on the fucking serial killer in the other room.

“I’ll get you some Ibuprofen too.”

“Carl! Come here, son...do your Dad a favor, boy. Run down to the basement.” Silence for a second. “Carl? Remember what I said about the secret to successful lifelong imbibing?”

Mickey closed his eyes for a minute in hopes of drowning out Frank, and next thing he knew, Ian and Lip were examining his leg. Their voices were low as they cleaned the bite with water. It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it should and wondered why that was. He lifted his head to see a strip of cloth tied around his upper thigh, a couple of inches above the wound.

“All we got is generic Polysporin?” Lip’s voice drifted up to him. “Fuck, we need something stronger.”

“Booze,” Mickey mumbled so lethargic he couldn’t even open his eyes. His stomach heaved at the idea of alcohol but figured it might save his life while simultaneously killing him. Yup, that’s booze for ya.

“Good call, man. FIONA!” Lip jumped up from where he was kneeling beside the bed. “Bring any alcohol we got left.” 

 

***

 

From the bottom bunk of his room, Ian watched Mickey’s chest rise and fall, like if he focused all his attention on that movement, he could will it to never stop. Lip had run out of the room yelling at Fi to find some alcohol to clean Mickey’s wound, and Mickey appeared to be dozing, so Ian was left alone with his brain, which was simultaneously on high alert and retreating to a safe place.

He rested back on mattress staring up at the top bunk and the profanity he and his brothers had carved into the wood there. Lots of crude penises and what look like possibly a vagina. Ian wanted to smile, but the weight was too much.

“But I locked the door!”

Fi’s voice cut through his disjointed thoughts and he tipped his head enough to see her enter the room. She gave Lip the “Fiona” look then pushed her hair aside. Sights that would define his youth. Penises and Fiona’s exasperated gestures.

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I sure? You think I’d forget to lock a door when I’m transporting zombies?”

This got Ian’s attention! He hadn’t had time to process the fact that Sammi had gotten loose. Before he and Mickey had left, they’d pushed the dryer in front of the bathroom door. So how was she on the loose?

“Vee and I took care of it!” She insisted.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Let’s clean the bite,” Lip said, stopping in front of the bed and watching Mickey for a moment. He was laying on his back with his hurt leg on top of the blankets, a towel covering the wound. Lip reached down to remove the towel, then held it to the side of his leg. “I hope the ethyl alcohol in this whiskey is enough to kill any microorganisms.” Holding the little travel size bottle in his hand, he tried to read the fine print on the label. “Shit, I was hoping it was at least 100 proof.”

His voice was low, so he wouldn’t wake up Mickey, but Ian figured once he dumped the bottle of liquid on the wound Mickey would be very much awake. He sat up, so he could go hold his hand, but before he could get off the bed, Lip turned to Fiona.

“Um,” he began glancing once at Mickey then returning to Fiona’s questioning gaze, “I was thinking... if the wound starts to get red and infected looking, the only way to save Mickey would be to..."

Fiona frowned and Ian wanted to throw up. He wasn’t sure where Lip was going with this, but he wasn’t gonna let him finish the sentence.

“NO!”

His siblings both jumped at the sound of his voice and the sudden movement from the bunk bed. He stepped between them, holding out his hands “No,” he repeated and saw Mickey open his eyes. “Just pour the whiskey.”

“You might have to make a hard decision, Ian. You can’t just yell no and make it all go away,” Lip insisted.

“Pour the fucking whiskey.”

“What’s going on Ian?” Mickey tried to sit up, but Ian sat down the edge of the bed pressing a hand to his chest.

“Nothing. We have some whiskey for the wound. Try not to cry like a baby when we pour it on, okay?” he smiled, which took all of his strength because he wanted to cry like a baby again.

“Like that would ever happen, Gallagher.”

 

***

 

The room was quiet. Mickey wondered if he was alone, until soft lips grazed the skin on his aching thigh, then moved to just above the band on his boxers. Pushing his t-shirt aside, Ian laid his cheek on his belly and curled his body around Mickey’s good leg. Their hands linked on the bed beside him.

“Together,” Ian murmured the word and Mickey was too tired and too desperate to be with Ian to argue at the moment. He’d worry about it later.

_Later._

The word tried to take root and bloom into panic, but either he needed to remain calm to figure out how to get out of this, or he needed to remain calm to make sure Ian made it through without him. Panic wasn’t a luxury he had, now. He ran his fingers through that goddamn red hair and felt himself relax a little.

“Pizza bagels and video games,” Ian murmured. For a second, Mickey felt the panic return. Was Ian losing it? While he lay helpless on the bed, useless. Then he remembered.

 

_He watched Ian, soaked in adoration for him, trying to be discreet. He let his eyes trail down to his thigh, where Ian was running a finger along the side of his jeans. The simple act itself got Mickey half hard and near ready for another round._

_“Hey Ian, do you want Cheese & Pepperoni, or Three Cheese?”_

_Mickey barked in her direction, “Sausage and Pepperoni!”_

_He grabbed Ian’s hand, pulling it over the crotch of his jeans._

_She called back in irritation, “We don’t have any, asshole. You ate the last of them.”_

_He pressed Ian’s open palm against his filling dick, confidently and without fear. Watching Ian’s eyes pull open in surprise, whipping his head over his shoulder to check for anyone approaching had Mickey feeling predatory._

_“They’re behind the Banquets.” He maintained eye contact with the redhead while he spoke, and slowly rolled his hips upwards. Ian’s mouth fell open slightly, and began rubbing small circles in response._

_Mickey laid his head back into the couch cushion, closing his eyes, breathing in the moment. His heart beat faster in his chest. The recent encounter in his bedroom was already playing in his mind, recapturing warm sensations and enticing visuals._

_Ian’s broad shoulders straining with effort, gliding over Mickey’s back with every thrust. The hot air blowing against the back of his neck, moving sideways, winding up to the shell of his ear. He knew Gallagher had wanted to press his mouth against Mickey’s skin, and the desire to let him was growing stronger._

_He opened his eyes and found Ian in a near lust-filled trance. He watched him bite his bottom lip, sucking on it until it popped out red and slick. He unconsciously mirrored the move._

_“Ian, please tell me you beat his ass.” They jumped apart as Mandy strolled over to place the tray of pizza bagels onto the table, blissfully unaware of the intimate moment taking place._

_“Jesus fuck, Skank. Give a guy a warning next time.” Mickey scowled, grabbing a bagel before it had time to cool and pulling his hand back reflexively._

_When she looked at her brother quizzically, Ian supplied, “Yeah, Mandy, I beat his ass. Gave it my best effort.”_

_He shared a meaningful look with the older boy, adding, “I guess you could say I really went to town on him.”_

_He burst into giggles, as Mickey shook his head and grinned. “Fuckin’ dork.”_

_This Gallagher kid was going to be the death of him._

 

***

 

“Fuck, somebody shut Frank the fuck up!” Lip snapped at the room in general. He was tired and about to lose his fucking mind. This whole day was like living a dozen lifetimes in hell. Now, they were in a sort of horrific limbo wondering what was going to happen with Mickey, and how that was going to affect Ian. But at this exact moment, having to listen to his sperm donor rant and rave like a goddamn lunatic was the straw that he was going to stab himself in the head with. “He’s driving me crazy.”

“I tried to kill the bastard, but you stopped me,” Ian snapped. “I’m more than happy to finish the job.”

“Someone find Sammi. She loves her old man,” Frank bellowed and Ian stood up releasing his deathlike grip on Mickey’s hand. He looked murderous.

“I’ll go, Ian. Mickey needs you to stay.” Ian’s jaw tensed but he sat back down on the edge of the bed.

Lip reluctantly, very reluctantly, returned to his room. Out of spite and a whole lot of pleasure, he turned the overhead light on, and Frank retreated under the comforter with an exaggerated moan. 

“Wretched children,” he mumbled then poked his head out and opened one bloodshot eye. It was still sunken into the socket and the shadow under it was more of bruise, but the thing looked alert. “Lip? Son? Come in and have a seat.” A bruised, skeletal hand crept out from under the sheet and tapped the bed twice.

“I’d sooner walk into a horde of zombies.”

“What is all this paranoia about zombies? Was I not invited to the crank party? You run out of meth before even THINKING to share with your old man?!” Both wasted eyeballs that were now staring at Lip now filled with accusation.

“I’m just here to tell you to shut up or we’ll lock you in the basement you keep yapping about.” Lip was inching his way out of the room wanting no more of this man’s presence. The consequences of his brew were so extreme Lip was having trouble even fathoming it.

“Yes, son, please. The basement.” He was clearly excited now and shoved the covers off his shoulders. “I stored the Doubletree order there after Sheil’s place blew. Six cases. Ha! I’m still in business.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you are fucked in the head if you think you’re getting near your poison.”

“Poison? Bite your tongue.” Frank’s expression had morphed into a frightening mask of desperation. “Bring me some hair of the dog or I will tear you to shreds.”

Lip backed into the door frame. He’d seen Frank in every imaginable state including angry, but this was a sick reminder to him that less than an hour ago he had been a mindless flesh eating machine.

“What? Wait. How the fuck are you not a fucking zombie anymore?” Lip tossed the question out, not expecting the useless drunk in front of him to have an answer.

 

***

 

"Fucking thirsty as shit, man” Mickey whispered, trying to lick his lips. Ian leaned down and kissed them, running his moist tongue along the seam, eliciting a weak chuckle out Mickey. “Again.”

One more kiss and Ian stood up. “I’ll get you something. Be right back.” Opening his eyes a crack, Mickey watched him stop at the door where Carl was standing. They exchanged a few quiet words, then Ian disappeared.

“Carl,” Mickey said lifting a hand and waving him over. He pulled up the kitchen chair from where it was tucked into a tiny desk and sat down, the sawed off shotgun draped over his thighs.

“Hey man,” Carl nodded at him.

“Yeah,” Mickey lifted his arms above his head trying to adjust the pillows a little. He wasn’t the kind of guy who had serious chats while laid out in bed. He was the kind of guy who liked to be in charge of the serious chat. “Gimme a fucking hand, man.”

A bit of fluffing and arranging, and he was slightly elevated. It was fucking exhausting and he almost fell asleep in the process, but it wasn’t gonna take Ian an hour to find him something to drink. He had to do this quickly.

“You always seemed like you understood shit,” he began eyeing Carl with his man to man look. “Like you could do what needed done.” 

“Yeah, man, course,” Carl nodded and sat up a little straighter. Mickey felt a small well of something brotherly. “Whatdaya need?”

“Hear me out before you answer,” he began but gave Carl another one of his patented looks: the “and the answer better be fucking yes or you’re a dead man” look. “This,” he gestured at his leg, “might be a fucking problem. A big fucking problem. And I want Ian safe.”

They stared at each other until Carl nodded his understanding. “What do you have in mind?” Carl asked sitting forward, arms resting on the shotgun. Mickey looked at it, and Carl followed his gaze. “NO FUCKING WAY.”

Mickey jerked back a bit at the volume. The kid had always seemed so quiet. “Fuck, no, I ain’t asking you to shoot me. But I may need some assistance. That’s where my brothers come in.” Carl had relaxed slightly, but the frown on his face was still there. “You gotta look at the big fucking picture here, man. Okay?” Mickey closed his eyes for a moment as a wave of pain radiated from his thigh.

Carl looked confused, and Mickey was too, momentarily. What was he talking about? Goddamn, he was so fucking tired. “I mean, fuck, get my fucking brothers up here the second I seem--”

They both swallowed. “Fucking different.”

Carl nodded yet again. “And Ian? He thinks he’s...going with you.”

Fuck. Mickey closed his eyes again. This time in mental pain. Damn it, if for one fucking second he thought there was some kind of heaven or some shit like that, he’d probably say fuck it and go along with Ian’s crazy ass idea. But he was only a fucking kid. No way was he dying if he didn’t have to.

“Tie him up.”

Carl stood up, clutching the shotgun to his chest. He paced the room for a moment. “I don’t know Mickey. He would never, ever forgive me.”

“Yeah, well, you gonna forgive yourself if he--fuck, kills himself?”

“I,” And he started pacing again.

“I fucking know, Carl, that this is a no win goddamn situation. There’s no fucking way this doesn’t end like shit, but Ian ain’t dying. Not if I’ve still got a breath left in my fucking body. You gonna help me or do I gotta ask someone else?” He never raised his voice or moved from his half prone position, but Carl heard him just fine.

“Yeah, just had to think a minute.”

Mickey relaxed. “Help me with these fucking pillows again. I need to sleep.”

Pulling one of the pillows out from under Mickey’s head, Carl bent forward laying the shotgun on the mattress next to Mickey’s leg. “I’ll be keeping this,” Mickey said. He lifted the rifle with his left hand, stretched across the bed and tucked it between the wall and the mattress. Then he crooked a finger at Carl, who leaned down until Mickey could grab the collar of his hoodie. “This is a fucking pact.”

As close as they were, Mickey could see tears pooling along Carl’s lower lids, but he nodded one last time. “I swear.” The sorrow in those two words linked them forever.

 

***

 

Lip hadn’t see Frank at all today, so he didn’t know firsthand how severely he had been affected by the beer, but he’d been locked in a small room with Sammi for most of the day, and she was definitely in full zombie mode when she’d bitten Mickey. If Frank hadn’t been in there decaying as well, why hadn’t Sammi attacked him?

He moved closer to the bed, butting his knees up to the mattress, which he thought randomly that he would never, ever sleep on again. Frank was mumbling incoherently about turning the heat down or the place was gonna blow.

“Why aren’t you a zombie?” Lip repeated absently. They knew the beer had something to do with this. Lip had assumed that they were all just really fucked up drunk, but did that mean that they would eventually all just sober up? Was Frank sobering up?

Jesus Christ, had all those people died for nothing? “Fuck Frank,” he spat, but the image of Sammi’s diseased body formed in his mind. No, even if she had sobered up, her body was too far gone for her to survive. Then why was Frank’s body not diseased—anymore than usual.

Lip reached out a hand tentatively and pulled the comforter back revealing Frank’s thin body covered in only boxers and a tank top, and one moth eaten wool sock. His leg looked like it might be broken and he had more bruises than usual, but he didn’t look inhuman.

He nearly jumped out of his own skin, when Frank’s claw-like hand clamped around his upper thigh. “One beer, son. Please. I can have one beer a day.”

Lip leaned down close to his father’s face and, despite the putrid smell coming from the man’s mouth, he spoke clearly so Frank would understand, “As long as I’m alive, you will never get another taste of alcohol. That, _Dad,_ is your punishment.”

“No,” Frank whined. “No, that’s not right. I’m allowed to have one beer a day. The doctor said so.”

“What?” It was like talking to broken record.

“My liver, Lip, it’s still fresh a daisy, thanks to modern science. It is up for the task of 130 proof, the strongest beer known to man,” Frank announced like he was performing in his own TV ad.

His liver. Some poor kid gave his liver to this yahoo. And in that moment, Lip Gallagher’s brain slotted every single piece of this bizarre, horrific puzzle together.

_HOLY SHIT!_

“IAN!” He yelled, as he ran out of the room.

 

***

 

Reaching into the fridge for the orange juice container, Ian cursed under his breath for the thousandth time. He needed to fucking do something. But what? He just couldn’t think, and his stupid brain was now standing in the way of saving Mickey.

Slamming the fridge door in frustration, he nearly pissed his pants when he saw Svet standing on the other side of where the door had just been. “Fuck,” he spat at her. “You gonna shove your claw hammer in my face?”

She just continued to stare, and Ian was done. Fuck her and her stupid fucking face. “Fuck off, Svet.”

Still she stared. “I’m not fucking kidding!” He yanked open the cupboard door and grabbed the first glass he could find. “From the moment you stepped foot in our lives, things have sucked.” He opened the orange juice container like it had personally offended him. The little round lid flew across the kitchen floor, stopping near a pile of bloody sheets.

“I wish you had become a zombie,” he yelled at her. “Instead of Mi—” And he threw the glass across the room. It hit the wall beside the back stairs and shattered. Svet’s fingers dug into Ian’s forearm. “Get your fucking hands off of me.” He yanked his arm back. “He-he needs a drink.”

Tears formed for the umpteenth time and that sent another spike of anger to his system. “Get out of my way!” he gave her a shove and tried to walk past, juice container sloshing.

“Stop acting like baby. We need plan.”

“No fucking way am I planning with you,” he shot back, but stopped.

“Accept things that cannot change.”

“Oh shut up.”

“He needs man not boy.”

A choked sob escaped at that. Ian’s biggest fear about himself bubbled up to the surface. That he would not be enough. Enough to his family. Enough to himself. Enough to Mickey. That somehow he was deficient.

“It is wrong, to leave loved one like this.”

He stared back at her, realizing she had spoken these words to him earlier that day. At Nika’s.

“You would do the same for man you love, as I did for her.”

He took a deep breath. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Fine,” he said quietly, stepping right up to her face. “Fine. I will do what needs to be done, but then I need you to make sure that I get to go with him.”

“So you leave our boy with zero fathers?”

Ian dropped the orange juice container as he bent at the waist taking in huge gulps of air. Why was this happening? Why?

Svet’s hand smoothed the back of his t-shirt where sweat was starting to form. “We make plan. Go give him juice now.”

“IAN!”

Lip’s voice shook them both, and Ian shoved the juice container into Svet’s hands then ran for the stairs.

He met Lip on the landing as he was coming down. “What? Is he okay? What?” Ian’s hands dug painfully into his brother’s arms. “WHAT? For fuck sake.”

“I figured it out!” Lip looked a little crazy, like his brain was wired and outside his control. It was not a look he associated with his older brother, and he flittingly wondered if this was what he himself looked like when he was manic. Fuck.

“Figured what out? The zombies?”

“Yes, I was just with Frank. Did it not occur to you that he wasn’t zombie-like anymore?”

“Fuck. No! Holy shit, how?” Now Ian was feeling the adrenaline course through his body replacing the lethargy and hopelessness. Something was happening, he could feel it.

“Okay, so Frank’s got that new liver, right? From the kid.” At Ian’s nod, he continued. “What role does the liver play? Metabolism,” he explained.

“Metabolism,” Ian repeated slowly, desperate to keep up. “Right, so this kid’s liver helped him metabolize…” Lip nodded at him urging Ian with his eyes to keep going. “Metabolize…the beer?”

“Yes.”

Ian took a deep breath. “But all the other people had old, washed up livers and their bodies couldn’t deal with it?” 

Lip nodded again. “It’s South Side, Ian, who around here has a liver that isn’t working overtime?”

“Well, Mickey’s liver might be only 19 years old, but it’s been around the block that’s for sure.” By the time he reached the end of that thought, Ian wanted to scream at Lip that this was useless information, worse than useless because it meant that Mickey was not…

“Ian,” Lip shook his arm. “It means that we need to help Mickey metabolize the alcohol in his system before it takes over and shuts down his system.”

“Help?” Ian was nodding now. “Yes, okay. How? Fuck, why didn’t I stay in fucking school?”

“That’s why you got me. I stayed in school instead of taking my clothes off for old perverts.”

Ian reared back in shock, then saw the grin on Lip’s face. “Fuckin’ dick.”

“Anyway, stay focused, Ian,” he smirked. “We need to help him metabolize the methanol in Frank’s brew. He was mumbling about how he had to turn up the heat on the last batch to speed up the process cause he had a big order to finish.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah, we’re the children of a serial killer.”

“One of us is,” Ian smirked.

“Touche. Prick.” They let out simultaneous sighs. “So if you speed up the process, you fuck with the fermentation process and the methanol turns into formaldehyde.”

“Formaldehyde? Like for dead bodies?” Ian gaped.

“Yeah, they use it to preserve dead bodies.”

“My brain can’t deal with this, Lip.”

“Bottom line is Mickey needs high levels of ethanol to stop the methanol in his body from metabolizing,” he explained. “It’s like a really bad hangover and he needs a serious shot of hair of the dog.”

Ian felt a wild euphoria hit him. “He needs more beer?”

“Yeah, and I think we want more of Frank’s original batch. We know it’s safe, and I bet the levels of ethanol in it are well above what the FDA would allow,” he added the last with an exaggerated eye roll. “Like upwards of 130 proof.”

“Why would it have so much ethanol?” Ian asked. “Like more than regular beer?”

“It’s a cogent, adds aroma and flavor.”

Ian was starting to pace the tiny landing, his agitation back in full gear. “Okay, but is there any of his first batch left? Did he sell it all?”

“He said something about completing a huge order for Doubletree when the explosion happened at Sheila’s. Maybe he still has the first part of that order,” Lip let out a long, shaky breath. The rush of figuring it all out had run its course and now they were faced with the actual task of getting their hands on the beer and praying he was right.

 

***

 

Ian flipped on the light switch in Frank’s room once again. “Wake up, asshole,” he barked and kicked the side of the mattress with his foot. All he got was a groan, so he grabbed the edge of the blankets and tossed them to the floor.

“Brat,” Frank whimpered, curling into a ball.

“We got questions.”

“Call 411.”

“I’ll be calling 911 in a minute.”

Lip bent over a little to lift one of Frank’s eyelids. “Where’s the rest of your first batch?”

This got Frank’s attention. “You’ve finally come to your senses, my boy. Yes, you always were my favorite, Carl.”

“Nice,” Ian kicked the mattress again and it hit the back wall with a hard thud. “Where the fuck is it?”

Frank eyed them suspiciously. “Can I trust you to bring me some? Or are you young hooligans planning to do something nefarious with my masterpiece?”

“Spit it out,” Ian was on his last nerve. When Frank just continued to stare, he sat on the bed beside him and gently held Frank’s hand between both of his own. “Answer the question.”

Ian bent his middle finger back a hair more than it wanted to bend. 

“Savage!”

“Then answer every single fucking question Lip asks you.”

“It’s in the basement,” he smiled a little trying for friendly. 

Lip took his eyes off Ian’s hands and focused on Frank. “How will we know if it’s batch one or two?”

“Bacon.”

“What?” Lip frowned at Ian and Ian twisted that finger a little. 

“No, really, bacon! It’s my secret ingredient,” he yelled trying to pull his hand out of Ian’s grip. “Batch two is flavored with french toast style maple syrup because Sheils was out of bacon. Inferior, but kids today like variety. I was thinking of branching out to chocolate, and maybe tofu for the yuppies. I hear they’re still sniffing ‘round the South Side.”

“Where in the basement?” Ian demanded getting to his feet.

“In the, um, hmmm,” Frank tapped his chin. “I seem to have forgotten. Probably this wicked hangover…”

That last part was lost on Ian and Lip as they raced down the stairs, nearly toppling Svet who was hovering by the doorway. “Слава Богу,” she muttered as Ian passed her.

“That better be Thank God,” Ian shot at her and took the final four steps at a jump. Lip already had the basement door open, and they were in the stale, damp unfinished basement in no time. Giving the string at the bottom of the stairs a yank, Ian scanned the open room as soon as the single overhead light struggled to life. 

Years had passed since he’d been down here, and he’d forgotten what a fucking hoarder’s delight the space was. Most of the shit was Aunt Ginger’s and had the creepy old Aunt smell. Directly in front of him were 3 boxes labelled “Family Photos, 1962-1976.” It was going to take them forever to find the beer.

Fuck me,” he spat, feeling that sick panic start to drown him again. “Where the fuck did he put it?”

They made their way into the stacks of boxes, old furniture, and weird random objects that Ian couldn’t even identify in his frazzled state. “Is that a trombone?”

“Looks more like a makeshift weapon,” Lip added pushing an old splintered wooden crib out of the way. He let out a surprised yelp and scurried away. “Fuck.” The head of an old fashioned clown stared up at them from the crib.

“Ah, Jesus,” Ian drew back. 

“Carl,” they said in unison and returned to searching. Ian shoved aside several recycle bags filled with garbage, more assorted make-shift weapons, and for a moment, he thought he’d hit the jackpot, but it turned out to be a stack of empty beer cases.

“It’s a dump down here,” he complained. Tossing aside a size 52 teal wedding dress, he uncovered an entire case of unopened Nintendo Gameboys. “Check this out.”

“Get the fuck out,” Lip marveled. Pulling one out, he turned the red and gray box over reading the back. “You think this shit is worth something?”

Ian moved further into the room, and Lip pushed the Gameboy box to the bottom of the stairs.

“If the Gameboys don’t pan out, we could always melt this down,” Lip said holding up a golden trophy of a fake golden podium, with a little faceless, fake-gold creepster raising an open hand in a knowing gesture. He read, “Second Grade Debate Champion, Frank Gallagher, 1977 Abraham Lincoln Elementary.”

“Set that aside, Lip, we’ll put it on the mantle.” They both bent over in hysterical laughter. Ian quit laughing abruptly when Mickey’s face appeared in his mind. “Where the fuck is it, Lip?” 

“Okay,” Lip stopped shoving an old gigantic propane tank out of his way, “We gotta think like Frank.”

“Frank,” Ian almost snarled the word, “Hides shit. From himself, most of the time.”

Lip nodded, “And he’s a selfish, contemptuous prick who assumes people are stupid.”

“Doesn’t give two shits about his fam--” Ian ran so fast back to the stairs, he knocked over a half opened box. The motion sent a Lindsay Lohan blow up doll skidding across the cement floor.

“What?” Lip shouted but staring pushing his way back to the entrance. “You figure it out? Was it the selfish prick part?”

“Doesn’t give a shit about family! So why are all these boxes of photo albums at the foot of the stairs?” Ian asked, ripping open the top box. “FUCK LIP, IT’S HERE!”

“Thank God!” Lip joined him and together they pulled out bottles of Frank’s famous Milk of the Gods. “I wonder what he did with the photo albums.”

 

***

 

Ian’s old bedroom was so quiet that he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Carl stood up from the chair he’d moved to the side of the bed and tipped his head at the glass bottle of beer in Ian’s hand. Ian looked down at it, sick to death of the sight, thought, idea of beer.

“Hair of the dog,” he explained.

“Cure,” Carl nodded at his older brother. “Brilliant, dude.”

“I fucking hope so, Carl.” As his brother slipped out towards the door, Ian moved to the edge of the bed, looking down at the one person he couldn’t live without. He loved a lot of people, but only one person was put on this earth to be with him. “I might even pray.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Carl nodded again. “I’ll do that while you give him the beer. Gotta multitask, right?”

Ian smiled and gave his little brother a quick one arm hug. “Yeah, cover all our bases.”

He twisted the top off the bottle, sniffed it, then took a long swig. It tasted faintly of cured meat and nearly knocked him on his ass after one drink.

“The fuck, Ian? Put that shit down!” Mickey sounded completely drained, but he still managed to sound peevish, like Ian was an idiot. Thank you, God.

Ian took one more swing, then sat down beside Mickey. “Hair of the dog, Mick.”

“Fuck you talking ‘bout? I ain’t ever drinking beer again, man.” Mickey looked serious and Ian rested his hand on top of his favorite tattoo.

“We need to stop your body from metabolizing methanol…or ethanol something,” Ian squinted in thought.

“This more fucking geometry theorems?”

Ian smiled. “Yup.”

“Mhm,” Mickey eyed him. “Gimme a fucking kiss then hand me that bottle.”

Between the two of them, they finished the bottle. Ian set it on his dresser, removed his hoodie and shoes and laid down beside his best friend, his lover, his partner. His everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following along with us, and for all of your support. 
> 
> Next week will be the final chapter, the epilogue, where Mickey and Ian get the happily ever after they deserved from 5x9.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Nicrenkel:
> 
> And with this epilogue, our season 5 fix comes to a close. Thanks for riding along with us. We hope you liked it!
> 
>  
> 
> Note from J_Q:
> 
> January 2018  
> Nic: I'd like to think that Ian would thrive in something like a zombie apocalypse  
> Han: Could this be the fic the three of us were meant to write?  
> JQ: OMFG 
> 
> Nine months later, Ian was indeed our hero, and we wrote the shit out of a z-poc...look out Max Brooks! And it was our lovely readers who really helped make this time kick ass. Kudos!

“Kev, turn up the tv. Blondie’s back,” Kermit yelled from his temporary perch at the newly restored bartop. Vee threw a clean white towel at him.

“Wipe up your condensation, for chrissake.”

“What’s this, the Ritz now?”

“Don’t you have some windows to install?”

The chirpy fake voice of the local news anchor drowned out the rest of Vee’s response: 

“And in other news, the h1z1 that briefly plagued southern Chicago limits is under control, our source can confirm. Fortunately, no one was severely affected by the outbreak. And now for the weather, we go to--”

“Turn it off,” grumbled Ian, scrolling through the notifications on his phone.

“Put on that MMA fight from last night!” countered Mickey.

Lip laughed into his drink. “What, d’you think they’d suddenly start caring about what happens to the poor families of southside Chicago?” This brought a grimace to everyone within earshot, knowing that what he said was true. “Of course they’re going to pretend it never happened.”

“At least they cleaned up main street. Did you guys see that mess the next day? The sidewalk, trying to get into this place? All you little boys, trying to play Ghostbusters-- didn’t even consider what it’d be like trying to walk through that nastiness.” Vee wiped down the counter, gesturing to Mickey and Ian for more beer. 

They both shook their heads, barely sipping at the bottles currently in their possession. Though they’d never admit it, their tolerance took a nosedive after the events of that day. The association alone had them nauseous. 

“Uh, still working on this one, Vee. Thanks.” Ian clicked his phone off, just to click it back on again. Nothing.

“How about you, Lip? Another Sprite?”

Mickey choked on his drink. “Giving up on alcohol, Phillip? Knew you’d turn sooner or later.” He grinned, ribbing at the man on Ian’s other side. “Only thing worse than bein’ a zombie; turning into a fucking teetotaler.”

“Not quite, Mickey.” Lip thumbed absentmindedly at his phone. “I made it my new life’s mission to make sure that Frank never gets to taste a drop of alcohol again. Can’t do that if I’m drinking him under the table.”

Ian squinted in suspicion. “You’re going sober to make sure Frank stays sober? Why not just let the CDC keep him? They could open up a whole new department just to study him. I mean, they owe you, right?”

“Sure,” Lip added. “If the state of Illinois doesn’t see fit to lock up Frank for causing mass death and chaos, the least the Center for Disease Control could do is take him off of our hands.”

“Especially since SOMEBODY made the call, giving them the solution to their problems,” added Vee, topping off his Sprite.

Lip smiled. “Least I could do.” His face dropped, remembering that night, and the realization of what his father had done.

“Yeah, well, the least _they_ could do is pull the plug already. Fuckin’ Frank is a plague; doesn’t need their help. Coulda just let him die,” Mickey spat.

Vee shook her head. “That man is a cockroach. You can’t kill Frank Gallagher.”

“We know. We tried,” Ian muttered, taking a very small sip from his bottle.

Lip mused as he continued to thumb against the screen of his phone, “At least Frank’s brew is illegal now, upon penalty of incarceration. You guys remember the look on his face when they told him they were taking the rest of his stash?”

Mickey laughed, _“That’s $3.99 a bottle, to you!”_

Lip shook his fist in the air, _“You’re trampling upon my rights as an American citizen!”_

The two older men enjoyed their moment of camaraderie, quoting some of Frank’s most entertaining lines from that day. The Feds had to restrain him as they carted his Milk of the Gods away, threatening him with arrest if he continued his threats. Ian will never forget the moment that the tiny, female federal agent nearly clocked him in the face with one of his $3.99 bottles, and Frank had broken into tears in front of everyone, bemoaning the loss of what he was sure was his legacy.

“Whatever experiments they’re performing on him now, he deserves,” Lip proclaimed, lifting his glass of soda in salute.

“And whatever they’re giving him in recovery, they should give to someone more deserving. Like a Lions fan.” Mickey and Lip erupted into giggles, as Ian glanced down at his phone and chewed at the inside of his cheek nervously. 

Kev walked out of the storeroom, carrying several pitchers of beer on a tray. He crossed the room to the far wall, where Tommy and his crew were installing new windows. “Gentlemen, a top off?” They all cheered in unison, pausing to grab their cups.

“Kev, not the lagers! Do we look like we can afford that?” Vee barked at him.

“But, we said we'd give them free beer if they replaced our windows for free.”

“Yeah. PBR and Miller!” She stood with her hands on her hips, sighed dramatically, and marched over to join them and inspect their progress.

“Hey, didn’t you have a thing, today?” Lip asked Ian.

“Yup. Going to the clinic, talk to the doctor, get some meds… I don’t want to wait any longer.”

“That’s why we’re here, now,” Mickey added. “Celebrating Ian’s last drink. For awhile, anyway. Not forever, right?”

“Damn right!” They clinked their beer bottles together and brought them to their mouths, only to pause and scrunch their noses once the malt hit their tongues. 

Mickey looked at his drink in disgust, then eyed the top shelf behind the bar with nostalgic longing, like someone separated from a dear friend.

“You’re going to the clinic?” Lip rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Proud of you, Ian.” Sensing that he shouldn’t push the issue further, he added, “You guys still coming by for dinner tonight?”

“Depends on what you’re making,” Mickey deadpanned.

“Depends on whether you’re still bringing over that Tom Cruise Purple,” Lip countered.

“Oh shit, I forgot about that…” Ian clicked open his phone, glad for the opportunity to use it. “I’ll let Svet know we’ll be out; to just make dinner for her and Yev.”

“How’s that working out, you guys back to living with the ball and chain?” Lip ventured cautiously. 

“Soon to be ex-ball-and-chain. Now that she’s got a legit job, she ain’t gonna need that green card anymore.” Mickey thumbed his lip, shooting a meaningful glance at his boyfriend.

Ian tilted towards the blond man, “It’s been really nice, actually. It’s like…” He paused to link fingers with Mickey, who didn’t protest. “It’s like we’re back to last summer.”

They shared a warm smile. “With way more income. Svet’s been footing the bills, so I don’t gotta bother with any more moving truck scams. ‘S nice.” 

“Yeah, who’d have thought it’d be our baby brother Carl to pull us all out of the gutter?” Lip downed his Sprite, and looked over his shoulder at Vee, for another. “Hey Mickey, how does it feel to have a Gallagher running your crew?” 

“Co-running, fuck you very much. But don’t say that to Jamie’s face. And it feels like a fucking load off of my shoulders. Barely even see my brothers anymore… unless they’re stopping by to smoke us down.”

“Hey, we should stop in and say hi to Iggy before we go. It’s been awhile.” Ian glanced in the direction of the antique shop across the street. 

Lip followed his gaze. “That still a thing? Good for him… no, really. Never thought of Iggy Milkovich as a family man. It’s nice. Gives us all hope.” He eyed his phone with quiet meaning that wasn’t missed by Ian.

“Now that they’re pulling in real cash, they’ve all moved out. Just me, Ian, Svet, and little man at home.” 

“Tell me about it. Can you believe Carl offered to start making tuition payments for me?” Lip shuddered. 

“Well, taking in the fact that they’ve got four different sources of income…” Mickey shrugged.

“Plus interest, from the Lake Shore East faction…”

“Their spot in Lincoln Park…”

“I heard he was getting dividends from the Gold Coast. How does that even happen?”

“.3% so far, but that ain’t anything to thumb our noses at.” Mickey almost sipped his beer in distraction, “And you figure after a few months of this, it’ll double, giving them a weekly total income of--”

Ian cut in. “I just realized I’m dating my brother.” He looked from one set of bewildered blue eyes into another. “You going to tell me who you’re really going sober for?” 

Lip laughed heartily at the misdirection. “Okay, maybe it’s not just about Frank…”

“You and Amanda get back together?”

Lip shook his head. “No. And before you say anything, Helene was a one-time thing.”

“Then who?” Ian glanced briefly in Mickey’s direction, but his boyfriend had returned his attention to the replay of the MMA fight.

“To be honest…” Lip started, glancing uncomfortably between Ian and Mickey, “It really hit me, what you guys said that night, at the bonfire. You know, about… wanting to get better for _you,_ so that you can be better for someone else.”

Ian nodded, as Lip continued. “I’ve never really seen much point in self-improvement. Just tried to avoid crossing that line into Frank territory.” He twirled the dregs of Sprite around the bottom of his glass, contemplating walking around the bar to get another one for himself. “But you guys really have it figured out, together. You know? You’re solid. I want that.”

He sat up straighter, and locked eyes with a surprised Ian. “I’ve gotten financial aid all worked out, my grades are better, I’m-- I’m trying to take all of this more seriously. Not mess up the opportunity I’ve been given.”

“But you’re not in class, today? You’re sitting here at the Alibi, instead,” Ian pointed out.

On cue, both of their phones buzzed. They looked at their incoming texts simultaneously, and Ian’s face lifted with hope.

He looked at Lip with raised eyebrows, a slow smirk blooming. He paused, throwing a brief glance over his shoulder. “We’ll talk later.” 

 

***

 

Ian rotated slowly in place, mouth agape, letting the endless array of objects around them unfold as a collective masterpiece.

“I always thought antique shops were filled with things like lamps, and old silver, and clothes that grandparents would love. I didn’t know this place was so…”

Mickey completed his sentence, “Fucking _sweet!_ ” His face was soft and open, having just found himself in his own personal nirvana.

The store was lined with weaponry from eras past, some looking too old to touch. There was a section for Nazi memorabilia, Americana, vintage Russian vodka bottles, and what appeared to be torture devices straight out of the Civil War. 

If Ian didn’t know any better, he’d say that some of these items came from Mickey’s old room. 

In fact, he’s almost sure he nearly tripped over the medieval looking fire grenade sitting on a shelf in the corner on Mickey’s floor after their first sexual encounter. He looked around, confident he’d find a tire iron close by.

“The Third Reich may have been some fascist, racist motherfuckers who deserve to have Little Greta shoved up their asses,” Mina said aloud, coming to stand next to Mickey who was staring at rocket looking contraption about the length of one of Ian’s legs, “But they sure knew their shit. Greta’s the prototype to your Stinger.”

“Woah,” Mickey reached out a finger to touch the stabilizing fin on the metal launch tube.

Ian’s heart burst at the look of wonderment on Mickey’s face, and then turned his gaze toward a section in the back, drifting toward dated paper scripts filled with kanji, ceremonial slippers, and a gigantic fucking sword propped up on two large hooks on the wall.

“Holy shit!” He slid the blade out of its sheath, slowly, tilting it with reverence. 

Iggy cheesed widely from behind the sales counter. “Right? Never seen one like that, other than samurai movies.” He dipped his spoon into the jar of peanut butter he clutched to his chest, continuing to talk with his mouth full. “I’d be careful with that, though. Blade’ll cut your balls in two!.”

He looked to his younger brother, deep in conversation with Mina. “Kind of like Mickey and his fuckin’ nunchucks. Right Mick? Hey Mickey, remember that time you hit yourself in the balls?”

Mickey nudged his nose, “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

Iggy sassed over his mouthful, “YOU, STUPID.”

Ian laughed quietly to himself. He missed these interactions between Mickey and his brothers. Colin had moved out into his new apartment with Jamie, and Iggy had scarcely come back home since that fateful night, practically living with the shop owner and her son.

He could empathize with the dopey look on Iggy’s face, lost in warm fondness as his girlfriend explained various objects to Mickey. 

Ian stepped backwards and nearly stumbled over what looked like ⅓ of a bicycle.

“Oh! That’s a Daimler Reitwagen. It was the first internal combustion, petroleum fueled motorcycle ever made. Back in Bad Cannstatt, Germany in 1885.” She nodded, tucking both hands into the pockets of her jeans.

“Wow, you really know your product.” Mickey was impressed. 

Iggy had slunk around to join them, leaving his peanut butter jar on the counter to slide his arms around Mina’s waist from behind. “She does, bro! Ay, Min, tell ‘em about the first time you used that pirate-looking sword.”

He smiled wide as she began her story, beaming at her with pride. “The rapier with the Italian swept hilt? Well, I was four, and my mom had found us some matching naval breeches…”

Ian faded out on the words of the tale, admiring Mickey’s rapt attention, and the way Iggy would nose at Mina’s hair and pepper her cheek with kisses as she talked excitedly. 

Her hands found his, joining them absentmindedly. “And now there are only four 6 pound smoothbore cannons like that left in the world. There were five, but, that’s Texas for you.”

She looked up at Iggy, kissing him softly on the lips and undoing his hold. “I’m going to go see how Benji’s doing with his chores. I’ll be right back.” She held Iggy’s stare and tilted her head in Mickey’s direction. 

Iggy watched her leave as she ascended the staircase leading to their apartment. Mickey had to snap his fingers in Iggy’s face to draw his attention away.

“Oh, sorry, bro. It’s just… that ass is so perfect. You have no idea.”

“I beg to differ”, Ian grinned smugly, before his attention was snagged fully by a Vintage 1950s FCDA military canvas cot gurney stretcher propped against the wall next to some rusty medical clamps.”Woah!” He turned around, pressing his back into it, pleased to find that it was long enough to accommodate his full height.

“Careful with that!” Iggy’s hand shot out in alarm. “We’re trying to keep shit organized. Customer base has been getting bigger and bigger, ever since Jamie spread the word to pop’s old Goombahs. Getting a new shipment in, soon. Lotsa rifles from the ‘20s and ‘30s, she said.”

“Prohibition era? Like, Al Capone-type shit?” Mickey’s eyes widened incrementally.

“Yeah, that’s it! Jamie’s gonna blow his load when he sees it.” They shared a laugh at the expense of their eldest, Mafia-obsessed brother.

“You seem happy, Iggy.” Ian noted. “You look like you’re really at home here, with her.”

“Yeah, kid’s pretty cool, too. He’s got this huge comic book stash-- did you know that Spiderman is black, now?” He nodded to himself in astonishment.

They talked shop for another moment, until Mina returned with a small pile of paperwork in her hands. “What do you say, Mickey? You in?” She smiled broadly, her eyes sparkling.

Iggy’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Oh yeah! Hey Mickey, Mina’s looking to hire another part time worker. You want?” Iggy left the half formed thought hanging in the air.

“What like, for real? 9 to 5 type thing?”

Mina nodded excitedly.

“...Here? You want me to work _here?_ ” Ian’s heart broke at the overjoyous expression befalling his boyfriend. As if he didn’t deserve the offer.

“He’d love to!” Ian slung an arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “He’s more qualified than anyone else in Chicago.”

“Fuck yes I am!” Mickey’s breathing amped just enough for Ian to notice, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“I believe it! Let’s have you fill out these forms, and you can tell me what hours you’d like to work?”

Mickey looked incredulously up at Ian, still taking in the news. 

“Go ahead, Mick. I have something I’ve been meaning to talk to Iggy about. Take your time.” 

Mickey ran a hand from Ian’s shoulder to his wrist, smiling from ear to ear. He then joined Mina, already headed towards her back office.

“So, Mickey, you’re familiar with Uzis, right?”

 

***

 

“Okay, we’ll start you on Lithium.”

“ _Okay_ , how often does he take it?” Mickey huffed, snatching the box from the doctor’s hands.

“Twice a day. If the lithium’s not optimal, we can try Divalproex or Tegretol.”

“Try? You shooting in the dark, here?”

“There’s no magic bullet when it comes to medication. One size doesn’t fit all; it takes a little experimentation.”

“He’s not a fuckin’ lab rat!” Ian placed a hand on Mickey’s knee, soothing the brunet’s rising anxiety.

“We’ll work to find the right drugs and dose. I’m giving you Olanzapine for the paranoia. No more people trying to bust in the house and get you.”

Ian and Mickey exchanged a look, and Mickey didn’t know whether to laugh or rip this lady a new asshole. “That shit was the least of our problems.”

Ian took the box and held it lightly, ears turning red with embarrassment at her words. He glanced down at the words, pretending to read them as he struggled to keep his emotions at bay.

“Okay, we encourage you to make a list of people to call if you feel like you might hurt yourself.”

“Like a suicide list?” Mickey balked.

Ian squinted his eyes in puzzlement. “If the meds are supposed to work, why would I need a suicide list?” He felt the shame pool up in his gut as the words left his mouth, recalling his previous plans to join Mickey.

“You don’t.” He turned to the doctor, brows furrowed in disgust. “He’s got ME.”

“Come back in a few days, and we’ll see how you’re responding,” she said, ignoring Mickey entirely. With a hand on her hip, she smiled at Ian, prompting the end of the appointment. “Ian, you have any questions?”

“Uh, yeah, um… how long do I need to take these for?”

She hesitated, taking a small breath before answering “…There is some evidence that in time the need for aggressive treatment diminishes.”

“How much time?” He fought to suppress the oncoming wave of dread.

“Hard to say.” She turned away from Ian, closing the cabinet behind her head. It was becoming clear that she was avoiding the question. 

“Ballpark.”

“Uh…” She faced Ian, bracing herself to deliver the bad news. “Thirty… forty years.”

Ian’s face fell incrementally, stunned speechless. Mickey shook his head, refusing to accept Ian’s sentence.

Mickey helped Ian finish the appointment and check out at the window, holding the door open as Ian wandered outside in a trance.

Leaning against the brick wall, Ian struggled to light a cigarette with shaky fingers. His eyes refused to meet Mickey’s, unwilling to make this real.

Mickey stood next to Ian, choosing his words carefully.

“Ay, listen… this is gonna work. We’re gonna stay on this, together, and find out which—“

“Thirty to forty years, Mick.” Ian stared hard at the storefronts across the street, willing himself not to break down. “This is going to be the rest of my life. I didn’t…”

His chin trembled as he took a deep inhale of the cold air around him. “I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

Mickey put his hand on Ian’s back, putting the smallest amount of pressure into running it down Ian’s spine. He might not have felt much through his puffy coat, but Mickey was afraid that to touch him too hard would cause him to shatter.

“I’m—“ He swallowed hard as the first tears ran down his cheeks. “I’m going to take them, I’m just… I’m fucking scared, Mickey.”

Mickey reached his palm to the side of Ian’s face, cupping it and turning it brusquely in his direction. “This,” he said with all of the intense sincerity he could muster, “is not a death sentence. This is you getting better. Living a life where I don’t have to worry about losing you. To, to fuckin’…”

He bit his tongue, knowing that bringing up the painful recent events in their personal life wasn’t going to help matters. “Whatever shit we endure, it’ll be better than me losing you. You got that? I am NOT losing you, Ian.”

He looked up into Mickey’s eyes, lips quivering. “I’ve lost everything, Mickey. I lost West Point because of this.”

“You really think you’d be better off getting your nuts blown off on some third world goat farm than being here with me?” He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

“It was a part of who I am. I don’t know who I am, anymore.” He sniffled hard and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. “And now, for the next forty years of my life, this is all I get to be. I’m nothing.”

Mickey pressed his forehead against Ian’s, wrapping his arms against Ian’s sides. “This isn’t gonna be anywhere near as hard as you think it will. You take meds. Big fuckin’ deal. You get scared, you feel out of it, you’ve got ME. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Ian. You fucking hearing me? YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN THIS.”

Ian held his gaze, questions dancing behind his teary eyes. “You sure you’re going to feel that way a month from now?”

Mickey stared back unflinchingly. “I’ll feel this way _forty years_ from now.”

Ian’s throat constricted tightly, finding his last few seconds of strength before falling apart in Mickey’s arms. “You really want this to be the rest of your life?”

“Try and stop me.” He kissed Ian hard, letting the wetness coat his cheeks, his neck, and his shoulder as Ian buried his face into Mickey, gripping him tight against the cold Chicago wind.

 

***

 

The walk from the clinic to the Gallagher house was a slow one. Ian clutched the paper bag with his prescriptions in one hand, and occasionally felt the other one brushed up against by the back of Mickey’s.

They found themselves naturally drawn to the dugouts halfway through their walk, and drifted there, both quietly reliving the same happy memories in their minds.

“Jesus, haven’t been here since that time we banged.”

As they approached the tall wire fence, a small smile crept across Mickey's light features. “Want to make a pit stop?"

Ian shot Mickey a seductive look. 

Without warning, he tossed him the bag and began scaling the fence with ease. He hopped to the other side, and caught Mickey's eye. "Toss it back." He held out his hands, waiting to accept the prescription bag so that Mickey could join him on the other side.

Mickey was caught off guard by the wild look in Ian's green gaze. Something about this moment had Ian feeling good. Could be the minor physical exertion, taking him back to his ROTC days. Could be the adrenaline from the climb, like his other recent bursts of spontaneity.

Could be the reference to them banging.

Mickey threw the bag over the fence, gripping the wires tight as he scaled up and over. He stumbled to his feet with a huff.

"Careful, old man. Don't want you to throw out a hip." He laughed at Mickey's middle fingered-response, and jumped up to the bar nearest him. He struggled to pull himself up, and hopped down to get his bearings. He tossed the bag onto the ground, along with his coat.

He rubbed his hands together, and jumped back up to grip the bar again. This time, he was able to count to seven before letting himself fall back down to the ground.

Mickey pretended not to linger dreamily on the look of happiness on Ian's face as he walked up to the bar himself, laughing at the silent challenge. "Old man, huh?"

He pushed himself through each pull-up, feeling the lack of practice rippling through his muscles. It had been a long time since juvie had provided him a steady workout routine. 

He completed his eighth and final pull-up, hopping to the ground with a satisfied smirk. "What now, bitch?"

Ian walked up to him slowly, his smoldering gaze burning. "You look so hot when you do that."

"Fuckin' know I do," he said, taking in the personal victory.

"No, I mean it." Ian slowed his pace further, closing the gap between them with an intentional deliberation. "When you do that, with your body, the way your hips move and your knees draw up..." Ian ran a hand through Mickey's dark hair. "It reminds me of when you're riding me."

Mickey pulled back from his touch, keeping their hips connected. "The fuck? How'd you make that leap?"

Ian ran the back of his knuckles lightly across Mickey's jaw, enjoying the brittleness of his 5 o'clock shadow. 

"When you're straddling me, with your knees around my sides and your forearms pressed above my shoulders..." He pecked Mickey's lips softly, moving lower to caress them against his neck, "And you're pressing your chest against mine, rolling your hips, grinding down on my dick..."

Mickey exhaled, feeling the moment. "C'mon, man, it's still light out." He looked around them. "Probably kids out, and shit." He eyed the dugout greedily. "We can do this somewhere more private."

Ian let Mickey lead him down to the benches, pausing to retrieve his coat. When he lifted it, he remembered the meds bag lying underneath it.

He picked it up, examining the outside for a moment.

"You coming?" Mickey called, his own coat already discarded. 

Ian joined him, face already shifting in thought. "Hey Mickey, you know how that doctor was saying that some of this stuff would give me sexual side effects?" 

Mickey furrowed his brow. "Yeah, so?"

"Well... what if this is the last time I can get it up? For a long while?"

"S' not going to be that long, man. We just wait out the adjustment period, and we're good as new."

"She said it could be a month, maybe two." 

Mickey restrained the irritated sigh building in his chest, suspecting that Ian was not going to be getting on him as quickly as he would like. "Yeah, maybe. Maybe not. But that's not important, alright? All that matters is that you get better and feel like you. In control, you know? And then once the meds kick in and you get your boner back, we make up for lost time." He sat down onto the bench behind him, pulling out his cigarettes and shrugging his shoulders with a simple finality.

Ian balked at the idea of their sex life being put on hold. In his opinion, the sex they had was fire on a whole new level, and to have to douse it would be a crime.

"No, it's not alright. I'm not going to leave you with blue balls while you wait on me like some nurse." He swiped Mickey's cigarette, taking a long drag. "Maybe I'll just will it to get hard. Won't be difficult; all I have to do is look at you naked and I'm ready to go."

Mickey smiled at the thought. "I don't think it works that way, man" plucking his cigarette back. “But it’s okay, Ian. I’m not going to die from lack of fucking.”  
The blunt words were rendered soft by the sincerity in his voice and the love in his eyes. As he uttered these words, it had left the provider in Ian feeling dominant.  
He straddled the bench and sat next to Mickey, drawing him in close, pulling him against his groin. 

“But why would _I_ want to do that, huh? Do you have any idea what it does to me, watching you squirm in pleasure because of what I’m doing to you?” Mickey looked at him earnestly as Ian continued. “Feeling your soft skin under my fingertips, feeling the heat radiate from you when I get you worked up… Watching your eyes go dark when I’ve got your cock in my hand, and hearing the way your breath catches when I lick the tip, circling my tongue around the head…”

He ran his hand up the inside of Mickey’s thigh, kissing the side of his neck. “Watching every muscle in your body tense up and flex as I slide into you, watching your chest rise and fall faster…”

“ _Ian_ …” Mickey whispered, his eyes falling closed. The emerging depravity in Ian’s voice hugged his words in a way that brought Mickey’s cock to stir inside his jeans.

Ian pressed a kiss to his lips, and palmed him firmly. “Feeling you clench around me when I’m pounding you into the mattress, making you come and watching the satisfaction on your face… That’s all me, Mick.” He slid his hand up the back of Mickey’s head, gently winding his fingers through dark tresses, and then tugging back sharply. “ _I_ do that to you.”

Mickey gasped, reveling in the tightness along his throat when Ian pulled him taut. He loved Ian like this; aggressive, dominant, and in control.

“I thrive on doing that to you. And if I have to use my fingers and my tongue instead, then so-fucking-be it.”

And in that moment, Mickey’s arguments died at his feet. He was putty in Ian’s hands.

“What’d you have in mind?” The words were strained against his throat, but his sinful grin told Ian that he was on board to give him total control of the situation. 

“You’ve got a whole box full of toys we haven’t used yet. We’re going to wear you out.”

Mickey chuckled in agreement. “Fuck… what are you gonna do to me?” He attempted a faux-innocent inflection, but it failed with Ian’s hand unzipping his pants.

“We’re going to start with those ben wa beads…” He took hold of Mickey’s erection through the pocket in his boxers, freeing it as he stroked it. “Going to lube them up real good, push them in slow.” His hand slid up and down teasingly. “Pull them out even slower, one by one.”

Mickey’s breath started to quicken. Ian kissed the column of his neck, running his teeth along the tight skin tantalizingly. “Going to suck you awake in the morning. Gonna tie you up and tease you with your dildo… the big purple one?” His hand moved faster, twisting at the head on every third stroke. “It’s almost as big as I am, isn’t it Mick?”

The brunet grunted in agreement.

“I’m going to bring you to the edge, and then not let you come until I say.” He released the black tresses, using his hand to grip Mickey’s jaw and pull him face to face. “You’re gonna beg me to let you come. And that’s when I’ll shove it in full tilt and suck you down until you feel me gagging around you.

Mickey kissed him on the lips, hard, fully lost in the moment. He stilled Ian’s hand, wanting to delay his pleasure until his lover was inside him.

Ian ended their connection with a few soft kisses to Mickey’s pouty lips, and then trailed them across his clothed collarbone.

Ian pulled back, suddenly despondent. Mickey propped an eyebrow, “Ian?”

Ian’s expression shifted into something desperate. “Mickey, I need this! I don’t want to not even feel alive anymore. If these meds take that away from me, then I need to feel this kind of rush. I need you to do this for me. I need this.” His stare is intense.

He nods seriously and kisses him, once, lingering, “I love you.”

They kiss hard enough to hurt. Ian pushes him backwards with his own chest, laying Mickey back onto the bench. It’s cold, and narrow, but they’re too caught up in what they’re doing to care. He pulls Mickey’s jeans and boxers down in one hard tug, and works him open with his tongue, his lips; his saliva leaving Mickey slick and wet.

He pushed into Mickey with urgency. They immediately built up a rhythm together, Ian slamming Mickey roughly into the bench.

When Mickey’s moans grew longer, louder, Ian leaned back and pulled Mickey onto his cock, hitting the exact spot he intended to, over and over.

As Mickey began to keen in pleasure, Ian paused his thrusts. “Mickey! I want to try something.”

Mickey’s reply was gravelly and exhausted. “Anything. Just keep going.”

Ian wrapped his long arms around Mickey’s prone body, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing, and carried him over to the fenced wall of the dugout. Mickey’s thighs squeezed tightly around Ian’s hips as he walked, keeping them connected despite the movement.

When Ian pressed him up against the cement wall, Mickey yelped. “FUCKING COLD, IAN!”

He slipped large hands between the wall and his boyfriend, cupping his glorious ass cheeks protectively as he resumed thrusting.

“I wanted this, that time you got out of juvie,” he panted.

“We fucked twice, that night,” Mickey protested. But he smiled, knowing exactly what Ian meant.

“I wanted to fuck you like this, though. I wanted to see you. Wanted to kiss you.” They shot forward, meeting in the middle to kiss each other with everything they had.

Mickey fought to stay in the moment as he clutched at Ian, reveling in the slick of their sweat. He wrapped his legs higher around Ian’s waist, who groaned lowly in response. 

His thighs started to tremble as Ian hit his prostate fast and hard, pistoning into him without mercy.

When they came together, it was as powerful as either could recall in recent memory. They milked each other through the aftershocks, collapsing into a heap on the cold cement wall.

Ian panted against Mickey’s chest, whispering with a husky voice, “I’ve always wanted to do that here.”

 

***

 

Ten minutes later, they sat crumpled together on the bench, mostly dressed, too hot and sweaty for their coats just yet.

“And Fiona’s been on me about working at the diner. Wants me to be a dishwasher. Or, a busboy? Something like that.”

Mickey traced a finger over Ian’s knuckles. “You considering it?”

“I dunno. Sean would be cool to have as a boss, I guess… but I think she’s just doing it to keep me on my feet. Once the meds drag me down, it’ll be hard to start working a new job. She knows they’ll cut me a lot of slack, there.”

“Is that what you want to do? You know you don’t have to. Between Svet’s income and my new job at Mina’s, we’re more than fine.” He held Ian’s hand, hoping to convey his sincerity. “You don’t have to rush into anything.”

Ian rested his head on Mickey’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re right. It’d be nice to have a job I like, for once. Last time I was happy at a job was when you were working security at the Kash ‘n Grab.”

They both grinned happily at the memories that flooded back, primarily of the their time spent in the cooler.

“But I want to do something where I can thrive, and not just survive paycheck to paycheck. I want to do something… meaningful.”

Mickey knew what he meant. Ian wanted to invest himself in a job that felt fulfilling. Mickey, too, wanted Ian to keep ahold of the ambitious, motivated hero that he fell in love with.

“Well,” he scratched at his cheekbone, “Since you like climbing walls ‘n shit, maybe you could be some sort of gym teacher. Or an actual wall-climber, like at those fancy fucking gyms they got spread out on the north side.”

“Or I could be a firefighter.” 

Mickey turned his head in surprise. “Damn, Gallagher. I wouldn’t kick you out of bed wearing that getup,” he murmured.

“Kick me out of bed? You wouldn’t last two minutes.” He gave Mickey a Cheshire cat’s grin that had Mickey wondering how soon he’d be ready for another round, if Ian wanted one.

“I don’t know about you being trapped in a burning building, though… maybe be one of those ambulance drivers, or something.”

“A paramedic?”

“Yeah. You’d still get to use the sirens, and the flashing lights… everyone would have to get the fuck out of your way when you roll through.” They laughed, kissing each other lightly and enjoying the playful moment.

“But I’m serious, though. You’d show up when people need saving, like the goddamn super soldier you were meant to be. Local, and way less risk than being in the army. You could go full beast mode, and they’d all still look at you with respect. It’d be perfect for you. You’d be helping, fuck, _everybody_.”

Ian’s breath hitched, turning to Mickey with a reverent look in his eyes. “You really mean that, Mickey?”

He brought Ian’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of each knuckle. “I really do.”

Ian sat there for a moment, and then reached for his bag. He fished around for the right box, popping the tablet out of the pack and swallowing it dry.

“You’re supposed to drink something with that.”

Ian shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m ready.” He met uncertain blue eyes with confidence. “I’m ready to do this, Mickey. It’s time.”

Mickey wrapped both arms around Ian, holding him tightly through his shakes, knowing that what he said was true. Ian was ready. They had nothing to fear. This was the beginning of a new chapter in their lives, and they were going to ride this out together.

 

***

 

They’d walked the streets of their neighborhood a thousand times, but tonight felt different. They felt different. For once, they’d managed to withstand the winds that constantly tried to knock them down. They felt stronger and more focused then they ever had before. 

Mickey purposely bumped Ian’s elbow with his own, so Ian knocked him slightly off the sidewalk with his shoulder. This caused a narrow eyed look from Mickey, who bent forward to tackle Ian. Absorbing the impact of his boyfriend’s arms around his waist, Ian stumbled backwards into the chain link fence with Mickey pressed against him.

Ian could hear his laughter and knew the smile must be there too. “Hey,” he said. Mickey looked up at him. Smiling. Love squeezed at his heart. “Holy shit, I just realized something.”

Mickey continued to smile, but a lifetime of preparing for the worst showed in his eyes. “What’s up?”

Touching his cheek, Ian said softly, “We’ve never actually been on a real date.”

“Bullshit!”

“No, I’m serious. Like, like a date where you sit down, and you go to a nice restaurant, and you put on a nice shirt, and you, like,” Ian paused and started to push away from the fence, “eat with utensils.”

“You want to do that? Instead of dinner with your family?” Mickey asked following Ian back onto the sidewalk.

“Yeah. Why not?”

Watching Mickey’s expressions as he absorbed things gave Ian life.

“Like at Sizzler’s?” he responded nudging his nose.

“Sure.” Ian would eat at the soup kitchen and still think it’s the most romantic place on earth, so he picked up speed. Eager now to get on this date, before he started to feel to cotton brained.

“You mean _now_?”

“Now, before the meds kick in and I get all fucking weird again. Come on.” He came round behind Mickey to push him into gear, his hands sliding under Mickey’s jacket.

“Alright. Can I borrow a fucking shirt, then, please?” The question was directed over his shoulder at Ian who was getting a little sidetracked by the path his hands were taking.

“You look great, Mick.” Feel fucking better, he thought.

“I’m covered in dirt and jizz. Pretty sure they’ve got some sort of rule against that.”

Ian laughed. “Yeah, you can borrow a shirt. But I’m gonna keep you covered in jizz, so get used to it.”

“Bout time I was living how I should be accustomed.”

Swatting his ass, Ian shoved open the Gallagher front gate. “We’ll make an appearance, say hello, and—“

His phone buzzed loudly in his coat pocket, drawing their attention. “That your sister?”

Ian checked the notification, scrolling his thumb down the screen. He paused, reading the message repeatedly.

“Ian, what? Who is it?” Again, Ian could see the low level panic in his eyes.

Ian levelled his breathing, slowly drawing his gaze from the screen to his boyfriend. A smile drew from one side of his mouth to the other.

“You gonna tell me? Stop looking at me like that,” he frowned.

“We have to go home, now.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been fucking doing?”

“No, _home_. And we’ve gotta run. Hurry!”

Mickey groaned at the idea of running anywhere, but as Ian tugged on his wrist and sprinted off like the eternal puppy he was, he reluctantly picked up his pace.

They stopped short at the fence in front of the Milkovich house. Ian swung around in half circles, looking over his shoulder for some unknowable sign.

“The fuck are we doing?” Mickey panted, regretting every second of his jog.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure…”

Mickey frowned at his mysterious redhead, about to let Ian have his full opinion on how much he hates fucking riddles, when a yellow cab came to a slow stop under the L, and pulled up to the curb in front of them.

Mickey’s breath caught in his throat. The door opened to a petite frame, clutching a backpack over her shoulder and a large purse to her chest.

She smiled radiantly at them, nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Before she could say a word, Ian scooped her up into his arms, twirling her in circles, eliciting gleeful laughter from her.

His muffled exclamations of joy and relief were buried into their embrace. Mickey didn’t hear what they were saying, exactly; he was focused on her unmarred skin, healthy overall appearance, and lack of cuts and bruises.

“Hello, you deaf, Dipshit? Ian, how high is he?”

Mickey charged into her arms, squeezing tight around her shoulders like she would float away if he let go. She hugged him back loosely, joking “I heard the south side fell apart without me. Knew you guys needed me around to keep things in line for you.”

She moved to pull away, but Mickey tightened his grip. Her uncertainty melted away into his embrace, and she let her arms coil back around him, holding him just as tightly.

He finally broke the hug, shaking the teariness welling up in his eyes. “See you dyed your hair back.”

She nodded, smiling up at her brother with sincerity and love in her eyes. “I did, Mickey. Black suited me better. It’s more… _me_.”

He sniffed. “Good. Cause you looked like shit as a blonde.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling wide and throwing a mock punch at his side. “Asshole.”

He grabbed both of her bags, nodding his head towards the house. “Let’s get inside. ‘S fucking freezing out here. I carry your shit, you make us some pizza rolls.”

Ian threw an arm over her shoulder and led her up the short walk to the porch. “Welcome home, Mandy.”


End file.
